But . . .
Fallon struck the match.
That would leave citizens inside the bank with two, possibly three—if no one stepped outside to escape after the first bit of gunfire—hardened killers. Hardened. Fallon was sure of this. These weren’t boys on a whim. This had been well-planned and completely professional. Three men inside. Three outside. On a day when the bank’s vaults would be filled with cash and coin.
He had to wait until all the bank robbers were outside.
The match moved to the cigar. The punk grinned like a clown this time and let the flame come to the stinking cigar. The kid sucked, the flame grew, the tip began to smoke and glow. Fallon heard the door open.
“It ain’t lit yet,” the punk managed to say as he puffed and clenched his teeth. Fallon glimpsed a man in a bowler as he hurried by carrying grain sacks. Another, with a saddlebag over his shoulder. The third, last man, with a rifle pointing inside. He shot a glance at the punk and Fallon, and then warned the bank employees and any customers not to stick their heads outside.
The man held the door open.
“Throw him inside, Whit,” the one with the Winchester said, and looked at Fallon. “Once that door closes, buster, it better not open or we’ll riddle this building with so much lead, you’d think we had a Gatling gun.”
The man hurried to his horse.
Whit, the punk, said, “You heard Mabry. Inside.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fallon brought the match down and stuck the tip against Whit’s throat.
The punk yelped, and Fallon slammed the palm of his left hand against the kid’s jaw, then slid the forearm past his neck to the crook of his arm. Twisting, Fallon pulled Whit against his body. The shotgun clopped onto the wooden planks, and Fallon used his right hand to reach down, found a belted revolver, and he pulled it, thumbed back the hammer, and saw Mabry turning around, cursing.
The .45 bucked in Fallon’s hand, and crimson exploded from the gray vest the outlaw wore, just above his waistband. Two of the men were already mounted, and as Mabry twisted from the impact of a lead slug in his belly, he triggered the Winchester, the bullet splintering the post of the hitching rail. That sent the horses screaming and the two already carrying riders bucking.
Mabry was down on a knee, head bent, blood pouring from his mouth. The one who had been pretending to cinch the horses ran toward Fallon, pulling a double-action Smith & Wesson from his holster and dropping his Winchester.
“Nooooo!” Whit tried to scream, and Fallon shoved him toward the duster-wearing horse holder as the .44 bucked three times, turning Whit around, and another slug shattered his spine. Fallon was diving now, triggering the Colt, hitting the horse holder in the shoulder and sending him stumbling into the street. Two of the horses had broken their tethers and stormed down the street. Fallon landed, came up to his knees, grabbed the shotgun, and eared back the hammers.
A bullet tore through the crown of his hat, knocking it off. Fallon caught a glimpse of one of the men shooting recklessly from the saddle of his bucking horse. He saw the other had managed to get his horse under control. That’s the one Fallon drew a bead on and touched one of the triggers to the scattergun. The man was blown out of the saddle, his arm slamming the other rider somehow in the face, and sending him crashing to the pavement. Then both men disappeared underneath horseflesh and the acrid, biting white smoke from the shotgun. The horses ran, the one belonging to the man Fallon had killed heading up the street, toward the courthouse, leaving a bloody corpse on the pavement. The other horse, a black Thoroughbred, galloped the other way, out of town, dragging its rider—his left foot hung up in the stirrup—behind him for two blocks, leaving a trail of blood and gore until the socked foot slipped out of the boot, and deposited another dead man in front of Blessingame’s Funeral Parlor.
Fallon sat up, bracing his back against the wall of the Stockgrowers’ bank. A bullet splintered the wood inches from Fallon, and fragments of wood stung his face. That would be from the man in the slicker, across the street. Fallon had one round left in the shotgun, but buckshot wouldn’t travel that far. Fallon looked at the rifle that Mabry had carried, contemplated his chances of getting it. Two bullets hit the wood then, one shattering the window and another tearing a whole in the left sleeve of Fallon’s expensive coat. Fallon saw the horse holder, standing, aiming, touching the trigger of his Smith & Wesson, realizing it was empty, and pulling another gun from a second holster. The man across the street fired again, but his bullet dug a furrow into the boardwalk. Fallon triggered the shotgun again and saw the horse holder catapulted four feet into the street.
He rolled over then, tossing the shotgun away, grabbing the Winchester, and diving as far as he could. Another bullet whined off the street. Fallon saw the man, halfway in the street, levering the rifle. Fallon came up and dived again, this time landing behind the water trough in front of the grocery next door to the bank. A bullet tore through the heavy wood, showering Fallon with water. He rolled onto his back, levered a round into Mabry’s .44-40, and caught his breath.
The lookout in the slicker fired again. The plate glass window to the grocery shattered.
Fallon swallowed, tried to figure out his best action. Which side to go to or come up over the top.
Then, a woman’s voice cried out, “You gol-dern hoodlum. Take this.”
What sounded like a cannon roared, and then all Fallon heard were the shrieks of men and women, and someone ringing a fire bell, and horses and feet clattering down the boardwalks and on Cheyenne’s paved streets of its main business district.
Fallon used Mabry’s rifle to push himself up, and he saw the man in the rain slicker lying spread-eagled on the street. Fifteen feet away, in front of the saloon, stood the owner of the saloon, red-headed and rouge-faced Ma Recknor, holding a smoking Greener shotgun in her hands, her yellow teeth clamped on her favorite brand of cheroot.
“Want a drink, Marshal?” Ma Recknor called out. “It’s on the house.”
Fallon tried to say, “no thanks,” but nothing came out. He shook his head instead. “If you change your mind, I’ll be having mine,” Ma said, and pushed her way through the batwing doors.
He reached for his hat that wasn’t there, leaned Mabry’s rifle against the water trough, picked up his hat, stuck a finger through one of the holes the bullet had made, and examined the carnage.
Mabry was dead on the boardwalk. Three feet away lay Whit in a pool of blood. Two men were crumpled on the street in front of the bank. A trail of blood and brain matter on the stones led to the corpse in front of the funeral parlor, and the sixth was blown to pieces in front of the saloon.
What was that question one of the kids had asked at the Abraham Lincoln Academy? What had Fallon thought about answering, “I’ve never killed any man as a United States marshal”? . . . Well, that couldn’t be his answer from here on out.
* * *
The city’s street department was busy at work cleaning up the carnage. Chief of Police Derrick McGruder snuffed out his cigarette on the splintered hitching rail in front of the bank and asked, “Harry, how the hell could you kill all six of these outlaws and wind up with just a scratch on your cheek?”
Fallon sipped the coffee the banker had brought him.
“Ma killed the one across the street,” Fallon told him. “Not me. I didn’t kill the one the horse dragged to death, either. The fellow I blasted with the shotgun accidentally knocked him out of the saddle. The kid there, ripped to pieces with that Smith & Wesson, he got killed by his pard, but I guess I killed his pard.”
“So three men instead of six?”
Fallon swallowed. “Hell, Derrick, I don’t know. It happened so fast.”
A deputy held a Pinkerton National Detective Agency description to Mabry’s face, and looked at McGruder. “It fits Big Burl Mabry to a T, Sheriff. Man, this’ll be something to tell my wife about tonight.”
“Speaking of which,” Fallon said, “can you send someone over to my hous
e, let Christina know I’m all right?”
“Your wife shouldn’t be worried, Harry,” McGruder said. “This wasn’t a job for the U.S. marshal.”
“Any gunfight, Christina will likely figure I’m in the thick of it.” He smiled without humor.
“Richard, go over to the marshal’s house. Tell Mrs. Fallon that her husband is fine, that there’s no danger, that everything’s all right.”
“Should I tell her everything?” the deputy asked as he rose and handed the Pinkerton paper to his boss.
McGruder looked at Fallon, who hooked a thumb toward the Cheyenne reporters running all over the street, talking to witnesses. “She’ll find out soon enough.”
“You heard him,” McGruder told the deputy, and added, “But tell her she has permission to shoot any newspaper reporter in the buttocks if they bother her.”
The deputy was gone. McGruder shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “There will be a coroner’s inquest, you know. But I can assure you it’ll end there. You’ll be due some reward money, too.”
“No,” Fallon said. “Give it to Ma Recknor. Hadn’t been for her, I’d be among the dead, too, most likely.”
“Hell of a thing,” McGruder said.
“Hell of a thing,” Fallon agreed. “You done with me? I need to get back to work.”
“Work?” McGruder laughed. “Harry, you’re a wonder. I was thinking if it’s too early to drink.”
Fallon tilted his head across the street. “Ma’s buying. Have one for me.” He shook McGruder’s hand and headed toward the courthouse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Helen was talking into the telephone when Fallon stepped back inside his office, and as Fallon removed his hat, he heard her say, “Christina, he just walked through the door. On his own two feet.” She held the earpiece to him, and Fallon closed the gap and moved closer to the big box on the wall.
Another sign of the new century about to unfold, the telephone felt strange in Fallon’s hand. He cleared his throat to let his wife know he was on the other end.
“Hank.” The voice didn’t sound like Christina, just some mechanical crackle, and the line hummed in the background. “The Widow Walkup just rushed to the door, and told me that you were involved in a bloody gunfight in Recknor’s beer hall.”
Of course. The Widow Walkup. Biggest gossip in the neighborhood, probably in all of Cheyenne, perhaps the entire state of Wyoming.
“You should confirm her report with an eyewitness,” Fallon said. “Mrs. Walkup being one of Carrie Nation’s most ardent supporters.”
“That is what I am doing now.”
Fallon sighed. “Well, they were robbing the bank, not the saloon.”
“Rachel Renee thought someone was shooting firecrackers, asked if it were the Fourth of July. I told her firecrackers and Roman candles only look pretty at night. And, since I can tell the difference between firecrackers and rifle, pistol, and shotgun blasts, somehow, I figured you were right in the thick of it.”
“Yeah.” Christina had a lot of experience with the American Detective Agency. “Is Rachel Renee all right?”
“She’s coloring.”
“On the walls again?”
“The floor. In her bedroom.”
Fallon smiled. “Good. It’s cheaper than a new rug.”
The line buzzed. He could picture Christina leaning against the foyer wall. The U.S. solicitor and the governor had insisted that Fallon have a telephone installed in his home, being an important man and all. Fallon didn’t even know how to work the damned thing.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I am fine.”
“How bad?”
He drew in a deep breath, held it, exhaled, and said, “A bullet hole through my hat. One through the coat. Scratch on the cheek.”
“How big is the hole in your cheek?”
“It’s just a scratch. Like I cut myself shaving.”
“Uh-huh.”
Helen had ears like an owl. She said with a smile, “It’s not even worth a bandage, Christina.”
Fallon said, “Did you hear that?”
“Barely,” Christina answered, “but I trust Helen.”
“I asked McGruder to send a policeman over to tell you that I was all right,” Fallon said.
“You could have done that yourself.”
He nodded, realized she couldn’t see, and said, “I know. I just didn’t want to make a big fuss over this.”
“Honey, the Widow Walkup said fifteen men are dead in the streets.”
“I’m not that good,” he said and pictured her smiling.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Remember, I’ve seen you at work.”
“Yeah. There were six. Ma Recknor dispatched one. A frightened horse took care of another. One got in the way of his pard’s gun. Which leaves three, if my math is correct.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. You didn’t mention any plans to ambush a gang of bank robbers when you set off to work this morning.”
“I just happened to be heading into the Stockgrowers’ at the time. Pure luck.”
“Luck.”
“Yeah. Luck.”
“Harry Fallon, I think you’re the luckiest man I’ve ever known.”
“Because I’m married to you.”
Her laugh sounded musical. “Flattery will get you forgiveness. And I’ll tend the cheek wound free of charge. The hat and coat, those will cost you. And remember, if I were at the bank, and not you, I wouldn’t have needed a horse or a bank robber to assist me. But everyone can use Ma Recknor.”
More static, then Christina said, “Well, I think McGruder’s policeman finally found where we live. Someone’s banging on the door anyway. I have to go.” She yelled to the front door, but Fallon couldn’t make out the words.
“I’ll see you tonight. What do you want for supper?”
“Bourbon,” he said.
She laughed. “You don’t drink.”
“I’ve half a mind to start.”
“How about mutton and potatoes?”
“That would be fine.”
“Harry?”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
His smile widened, and he felt warm. Helen shook her head and whispered, “Tell her the same. It won’t make you less of a man.”
“I love you, too,” he said, glared at Helen, and hung the speaking piece into the cradle.
“That didn’t hurt at all, did it, Marshal?” Helen said.
Fallon shook his head. “What’s the rest of my day like?”
“There are warrants to look over. Piled high on your desk.”
He turned to the office, but Helen called him back.
“Did you happen to deposit my check for me?”
“Oh.” Fallon swore, apologized, and reached inside his coat pocket. “I’m sorry, Helen. But what with the—”
“Hey, darling, I’m glad you didn’t. Had those boys made off with my check, my landlord would be screaming for his rent money again.” Fallon was fishing out the envelope, which he laid on her stack between newspapers and her own coffee cup. “Bank’s probably closed the rest of the day anyway,” she said. “I’ll try to drop it off on my way to work tomorrow morning.”
“It might still be closed,” Fallon said.
“Yeah, but I’ll get to count the bullet holes with the boys skipping school.”
She poured Fallon a cup of coffee, and said, “You might want to scrub the blood off your cheek before you go home, by the way.”
When Fallon reached the door to his office, he turned around and called out Helen’s name. When she looked up at him, he said, “If any newspaper reporter stops by . . .”
“You’re not in the office, not at home, and no one knows how to reach you.” She winked.
With a smile, Fallon stepped inside his ornate office, closing the door behind him.
* * *
Forty minutes later, Helen tapped on the window, and then gently opened the
door. “Hank?” she called out.
Setting the pen he had been using in the holder, he waved her in, and pretended to be massaging his right wrist. “I could use a break,” he said.
She grinned briefly, but then slid an envelope onto his desk. “Hank,” she said, “this is the envelope that had my check in it, but I noticed your scribbling on the back.”
Fallon snapped his fingers even before he glanced down. There was his unruly scrawl.
Carlos Pablo Diego IV . . . horse thief . . . Laramie
prison
“Right,” he said. “I almost forgot a promise.”
“Well,” she said, “you have had an unusual day.”
Yeah, he thought, but had you known me back when I was riding for Judge Parker, you wouldn’t know just how regular a day like today would have been—except for talking to schoolboys about law and order on the frontier of the United States of America.
He grabbed the pencil and wrote the name down on a pad next to the warrants and other correspondence he had been signing for what felt like all day.
His eyes went up again. “What’s the name again of the new warden at the state prison in Laramie?”
“State prison.” Helen shook her head. “I’ll always think of it as the territorial pen.”
“Wyoming has been a state since 1890,” Fallon reminded her.
“I know. Jackson is the warden’s name. M. C. Jackson.”
Fallon thanked her and scribbled the name down underneath the name of the father of the Mexican kid from the Abraham Lincoln Academy. He looked up again and said, “I don’t suppose our telephone wires stretch all the way to Laramie, eh?”
“We haven’t reached the twentieth century yet, darling.”
A Knife in the Heart Page 4