Sundown Comes Twice

by Art Isberg

  Now Miller had exactly what he wanted: the vigilantes gone, and an opportunity for him to ride in under cover of darkness. An hour later he got to a side street where he hitched his horse to a rail in an alley; he then made his way on foot to the back door of Cyrus Toomey’s office, facing Main Street. The door was locked, as he expected, but quick work using the thin blade on his pocket knife, and the lock clicked open. He stepped into the darkened office, closing the door behind him. The dim light of street lamps outside barely lit the office through curtained windows, as he made his way over to a large oak desk in the centre of the room. Sitting in a big, leather-padded chair, he pulled at the desk drawer. It was locked. A silver-bladed letter opener lay on the desk. Judd reached for it, inserting it in the drawer lock – a quick jimmying job, and the drawer pulled open.

  Two large, leather-bound ledgers lay inside on top of a thick sheaf of papers. He pulled up the first book, opened it, and tried to read it in the poor light – but he couldn’t. He lit a match from the ornate match holder on the desk, holding it up to the first page, reading as much as he could before it burned out. This brief scan down the page revealed rows of various entries in dollars made by many of the businesses in town, to Toomey’s personal account. Miller took them to be pay-off money of some kind. He closed the ledger, and pulled up the second one, opening it in the light of a newly flaring matchstick. This one showed line after written line of plans about the railroad coming closer, along with the names of people and the events they would become involved with, in association with it. Near the bottom of the third page he saw his brother’s name alongside Rachel Toomey’s, both underlined in two dark slashes of ink; then the second match burned out.

  Judd pushed back in the chair. Closing his eyes for a moment, he realized what he had. These records were invaluable. They could end up putting Cyrus Toomey in jail for a long time, or possibly even seeing him mount a gallows.

  Suddenly outside he heard the sound of many horses returning, pulling to a halt. Jared Bass’s loud voice quickly followed. ‘I want everyone back here tomorrow at nine o’clock. This night riding is a little hard on everyone, but I thought we’d try it first, and might catch Miller quick. Anyone who don’t show up will answer to Mayor Toomey. You all know what that means, don’t you? Now, get out of here!’

  Judd crossed the room, easing back from the curtain to see Bass still standing there, watching the men ride away, with his hands on his hips. As he turned to start up the street to the Rough and Ready, for a drink to wash down the night’s frustration and failure, Judd quickly opened the front door and stepped out on the boardwalk.

  ‘You been looking for me?’ Miller stepped out on to the street, as Bass spun on his heels, staring wide-eyed at the dark shadow of the man twenty feet away.

  ‘Who . . . who is it?’ His voice caught with emotion, already fearing that he knew that voice.

  ‘It’s me, Judd Miller, you back-shooting bastard. Now sundown is going to set on you twice, and for the last time!’

  Bass’s heart skipped a beat, and his breath caught in his throat as his stomach tightened in knots. He froze, not daring to make any move, lifting his hands belt high.

  ‘It was Toomey ordered all that . . . don’t blame me for any of it. I was just following orders, I swear it.’

  ‘You remember being rope dragged up and down this street, don’t you?’ Jared nodded, but did not answer. ‘Now you don’t have to wonder who did it to you.’

  Bass fought for something to say, anything to hold off Miller’s anger, and what he meant to do about it. ‘You . . . you better not make any more trouble for yourself than you’re already into, you gotta know that.’

  ‘Trouble? You’re in it up to your ears. So is Toomey. I’m taking him down after I’m done with you. But before I pull on you, I want just one question answered.’

  ‘What . . . question, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Are you the one who killed my brother Randall?’

  ‘Now wait a minute . . . we were all acting under Toomey’s orders. We only meant to scare him off into selling your place. But he pulled a pistol, and starting shooting at us. I don’t know who got a bullet into him. It could have been anybody. Nobody knows. It was dark, just like this . . . no one can say for sure.’

  ‘Yeah, it was dark like this. I’ve waited a long time to catch up to you. You’re going to pay for what you’ve done, not only to my brother and me, but other people around this town who’ve been run off or found dead. Your time is up, Bass. Go ahead and pull it!’

  ‘I aint’ gonna pull on you. I wouldn’t stand a chance!’

  ‘Then I’ll kill you where you stand. I said, pull it!’

  Bass fumbled for the pistol, finally clearing its holster, but he was already a dead man. Judd’s six-gun spit fire and thunder once, twice, the impact of the bullets driving Bass backwards until he fell to the ground, rolling over on his face moaning once, before quivering in death.

  Judd ran back into the office, closing the door and locking it behind him. He stopped at the desk only long enough to ink a short note:

  You’re next. Get ready for it, Toomey!

  A crowd of men were milling about in the street next morning in front of the mayor’s office, when he rode up in his one-horse buggy. He already knew Jared Bass had been killed the previous evening, and who the one man was that likely did the shooting. Toomey was scared, although he tried not to show it. If Judd Miller had gotten this bold and close, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to get to him, too. Cyrus knew the only way he could survive was if somehow he could get someone else to kill Miller. His own life depended on it. He’d tried to have Miller killed twice, and both times had failed.

  The throng of men shouted questions as he pulled the buggy to a stop, but instead of getting down, he stood from the seat, eyeing all those around him. This was it: it was now or never: he had to come up with something that would finish off this cowboy once and for all.

  ‘Miller did kill Jared, last night, didn’t he?’ One man shouted.

  ‘Of course, who else but a mad-dog killer would do something like that, right here on our own main street!’ Toomey shouted back, shaking his fist in the air. ‘And I’ll tell all of you something else, too. If Miller isn’t found and hung, there won’t be a safe street anywhere in this town where decent people can walk the streets without fear of the same thing happening to them. Like any rabid animal, there’s only one way to deal with him. He has to be hunted down and shot on sight! To that end, I’m personally offering two thousand dollars of my own money to the man who gets a bullet in him!’

  ‘With Bass dead, who is the new town sheriff?’ Another bystander called out.

  ‘It looks like that has to be me, until I can find someone else to take on the job. I’m going to deputize myself, soon as I get into my office. If Miller tries coming back here, we’ll get up a quick rope party, and swing him right here on the street. Now listen to me, all of you. I want you to go back home and get your pistols and shotguns loaded. We’ll make Red Bluffs into an armed camp that no one in their right mind would try to come into. When you’re walking the streets, keep them handy. If you want to come out at night and do the same thing, that’s all right, too. Just remember that two thousand dollars I’m putting up. The first man to collect it will be rich!’

  After inciting the crowd to violence, Toomey unlocked the door and stepped into his office. The first thing he saw was the note on his desk. Picking it up, he read the terse few words, then quickly crumpled it in his hand, throwing it back down on the desk as if it were a hot poker. Not only had Miller killed Bass, now he’d also been right here in his own office. The hair on the back of his neck tingled with fear, and his face flushed red. He saw the desk drawer was ajar, and his silver letter opener nearby. Walking round the desk he was almost afraid to pull it all the way open – but when he did, he found his ledger books gone. Fear gripped him a second time. If those records were ever made public, he could face charges of emb
ezzlement, falsifying public records, and even plotting murder.

  He sat down and lowered his head in one hand while beating on the desk with the other. Fighting to gain control of himself, he finally straightened up, scooping up the remaining papers. Getting up, he went across the room to the safe and knelt in front of it, working the shiny silver dial back and forth until the heavy steel door swung open. From inside he extracted a large, flat metal box, and took it back to the desk. Opening it, he lifted out rows of neatly wrapped large bills, along with two bulging leather pouches filled with gold and silver coins. If Miller could come into town and do what he did, Toomey could not take the chance that he might come again and this time blow the safe, getting every last dirty dollar Cyrus had to his name.

  The only thing left to do was take everything back to his house on the opposite end of the same street Carlyle had lived on. He could lock himself in the big, rambling mansion until Judd was caught, jailed or killed. His daughter Rachel was back east visiting relatives, and he wasn’t sure when she’d return. He had the scabrous home all to himself, and enough weapons to stand off an army. At least it was a plan that made some sense and might work. He shoved everything into a large cloth case and headed for the door, and his buggy.

  Judd had retreated far enough back into the mountains from town, to be certain no one could follow him there. It was the old hunting camp once used by himself and his brother Randall and just being here brought back fond memories of the days when they had hunted deer and elk together, and had then sat by a crackling, evening campfire, eating delicious and tender backstrap, roasted on sticks. The glow of those memories didn’t last long. He had these damning records of Toomey’s in his saddle-bags, but knew they could not stay there. If he was caught or, worse, killed, he’d have risked all this for nothing. He had to find a safe place to hide them until they could be needed in court.

  At the back of the old hunting camp, surrounded by tall, white bark quaking aspen, a rocky cliff rose nearly straight up for several hundred feet. Its rocky face was scarred with cracks and crevices, and one larger fissure caught his eye half way up, under an overhanging lip. He retrieved the ledgers from his saddle-bags, wrapping them in his rain slicker, and slowly began to scale the slippery stone wall. His hard-heeled boots slipped and scraped off the rock as he struggled to pull himself higher, inch by inch, until finally he reached the hollowed-out shelf. Reaching in with one hand, he cleaned out the duff of an old hawk’s nest, then slid the packet as far as his arms could reach until it stopped at the back.

  Satisfied it was safe from the weather, Judd slowly lowered himself back down to the ground. Looking up, he was certain no one would have a prayer of finding it but him. After spending three more days in camp, he decided Toomey had had enough time to worry and to wonder what he’d do next. It was time to saddle up and ride for Red Bluffs, and finish what he’d started.

  Cyrus Toomey had spent sleepless nights and fear-filled days, literally barricaded in his house. Judd’s promise to get him haunted his every waking moment. He refused to leave the big home for any reason, and at night tip-toed from one window to the next, peeking out behind curtains, searching for the shadowed figure of Judd Miller stalking closer. Every night sound, every creak and groan of the house, set Toomey off on another sweat-soaked moment of abject fear, pulling both pistols he’d stuck in his pants top, for protection.

  He finally collapsed in his chair, four nights later, and had just fallen asleep when an incessant knocking on the front door caused him to leap straight up out of the chair, pulling both pistols, eyes wide in terror. He started to flee up the stairs to the bedrooms, when the muffled voice of his daughter Rachel calling out stopped him. Creeping to the door, he lit the coal oil lamp on the table next to it, pulling one pistol, and kicking aside the chair he’d used to wedge under the doorknob.

  ‘Who . . . is it?’ he called out, lifting the .22-calibre revolver, belt high.

  ‘Daddy, it’s me, Rachel. Open the door.’

  Cyrus undid the double locks on the big door, slowly opening it just far enough for him to peek out. The glow of the table lantern lit his daughter’s pretty face and the cascading curls of black hair down to her shoulders, and the suitcase held in one hand.

  ‘What are you doing, why are you holding a gun?’ she questioned, pushing the door open, walking inside, before he quickly slammed it shut again, propping the chair back up under the handle and slamming both locks shut.

  ‘Daddy, what’s happened here, you look terrible?’ She looked him up and down.

  He grabbed her by one hand, lamp in the other, and pulled her into the parlour.

  ‘Did you see anyone when you came up?’ he demanded, wide eyed.

  ‘See anyone, what do you mean? The buggy driver dropped me off, if that’s what you mean?’

  ‘No, no, I mean someone like Judd Miller.’

  ‘Judd Miller? I thought you told me he’d been killed. Are you saying he’s now alive?’

  ‘Yes, he’s alive, and he’s already come back here and shot down Jared Bass, in cold blood. He even forced Westin Carlyle to hang himself. Now he’s vowed to kill me, too. I’ve been up day and night trying to stop him!’

  Rachel lowered the suitcase, staring at her father. Clearly he was at his wits end.

  ‘How long have you been living like this?’ She asked.

  ‘I’m not sure any more. Maybe four or five days. Miller wants to kill me because he thinks I had something to do with his brother’s death. He’s gone stark raving mad about it. Now that you’re back in town, we’ve both got to leave. Do you understand why I’ve had to live like this?’

  The thought of Randall Miller made Rachel pause a moment. She had deeply loved the handsome young man, and his sudden death by unknown assassins still haunted her, and all the questions that went with it – including her original questions to her father, right after it happened. Now all the pain, suspicions and questions she’d buried came rushing back.

  ‘Why is Judd Miller so sure you had a hand in Randall’s death?

  ‘Who knows? He’s gone mad, killing anyone who gets in his way. You can’t reason with an insane killer like that. He has to blame someone, so he blames me. Who knows why!’

  Rachel took in a deep breath. Her shoulders dropped from fatigue, tired from the long stage ride, and now all this. ‘I’ve got to get some sleep. In the morning, I’ll see if I can get some of your business friends to help you. I’m sure someone will. Maybe we can hire some men to protect you. Let’s both get some rest. You certainly need it too.’

  ‘I’m not going to bed. I can’t sleep. I’m staying right down here in the parlour, where I can watch the door and windows. I’m not going to have my throat cut while I’m asleep, not on your life!’

  ‘Daddy, I knew Judd Miller well enough when I was going out with Randall. I just can’t believe he’d come here and do something like this.’

  ‘Believe what you want. I’m telling you he’s gone mad. He even broke into my office, and stole personal papers of mine. Then he left a note on my desk, saying I was next to be killed after Bass!’

  ‘Will you please come upstairs, and try to get some sleep? You’re a nervous wreck like this. Judd Miller isn’t going to come here and try anything like that. In the shape you’re in, you might end up shooting yourself. Do it for me, please?’

  ‘I can’t. You go ahead. I’m staying right here with my pistol!’

  Rachel stared at her father for only a moment before she gave up, and turned for the stairs and her bedroom. Maybe in the morning she would be able to talk some sense into him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Toomey collapsed into a big, plush parlour chair, struggling to stay awake, driven by sweat-soaked fear, the pistol still gripped tightly in his hands. He turned the lantern down low, on the table next to him. For another half hour he fought off increasingly leaden eyelids that begged to close. Twenty more minutes and his head slowly began to droop toward his chest. One last time he was able to
fight off the overpowering urge to sleep, but the next, he lost the battle, going limp in the chair. Exhaustion and fear won.

  The gold-cased clock on the fireplace mantel monotonously ticked away the seconds, and the minutes, and finally another hour, its tiny bell ringing eleven o’clock. Toomey lay mouth open, lost in deep sleep, while the shadow of a man silently eased over the backyard fence and up to the tall, dark structure. No one heard the double French door lock give way to the twist of a sturdy belt knife, so the man could slip inside. Crossing the room he made his way to another door. Opening it led to a long, dark hallway leading to the parlour. A dim glow of light lit his way. Reaching it, six-gun in hand, he saw Cyrus Toomey collapsed in a chair, snoring loudly.

  Silently crossing the room he stopped in front of the chair, looking down on the man who had so drastically changed the course of his life into running from the law to stay free, deadly gunfights, and Wanted posters promising to hang him if ever he were caught. Ever so slowly he reached down and eased the little revolver from out of Toomey’s limp hand, tucking it into his belt. Now he was ready to extract the sweet vengeance he’d waited for and dreamed of for so long.

  ‘Wake up!’ he shouted, grabbing the little man by his shirt collar, dragging him up to his feet. Cyrus’s bloodshot eyes flickered open, trying to make some sense of what was happening to him. He staggered, unsteady on his feet, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with both hands, suddenly facing the man he’d dreaded seeing more than lingering death itself.

  ‘Miller . . . Miller . . . don’t kill me. I’m begging you . . . put that six-gun down. It was . . . Bass, did all the killing, not me. I swear to God, it wasn’t me!’

  Up in her bedroom, Rachel woke to the sound of her father’s terrified shout. She hurriedly put on her robe, and quickly descended the stairs. At the bottom she stopped for a moment, staring unbelievingly at the sight of both men.