Last Chance Saloon

by Cole Shelton

  ‘I’m taking these girls home, where they belong,’ the gunfighter announced to the stunned prospectors who were like statues. ‘If you want to keep breathing, stay right where you are. Any fool who goes for his gun gets a bullet. That goes for you too, De Heus.’

  ‘Who are you? You’re crazy!’ Anton De Heus fumed from behind the bar.

  Brett ignored De Heus and took three steps into the saloon with the first two Cheyenne girls right behind him. Seething, De Heus swore like a trooper and clawed at the rifle he kept concealed under the bar counter. The Dutchman’s long fingers clutched the gun and lifted it clear, but Brett’s twin Colts fired in deadly unison, pumping two bullets into his chest. With blood oozing through his shirt, Anton De Heus dropped his rifle, staggered back against the mirror and collapsed over a shelf full of drink bottles. Dead on his feet, De Heus crashed to the floor with bottles splintering around him.

  ‘Anyone else for Boothill?’ Brett asked.

  No one spoke. No one moved.

  Every customer in the Painted Woman simply stared incredulously as this stranger marched deliberately through them, booting chairs and tables aside, elbowing two drunken prospectors out of his way. The Indian girls followed him, most of them clinging to each other. Chameli and Asha brought up the rear. A couple of hard-nosed prospectors who’d given Asha her rough initiation a few days ago now cowered in fear when they saw her holding the derringer.

  When Brett reached the alley door, he stood aside, guns still levelled as the Cheyenne maidens filed past him.

  ‘The first man to poke his head outside is buzzard bait,’ Brett warned.

  He backed outside himself and untied his roan while the apprehensive Indian maidens gathered around Chameli in the darkness of the alley. Relieved to be out of that hellhole, they were still shaking in fear.

  ‘How will we get out of white man’s town?’ Chameli asked.

  ‘See those two Lazy F horses?’

  ‘One belongs to the evil snake, De Heus,’ Chameli indicated the chestnut. ‘The other is Josh’s horse.’

  Brett said, ‘I’ll keep watch on the saloon while you and Asha fetch them.’

  They didn’t ask any questions. Instead, they simply complied and ran to the branded horses while Brent stood with his two guns aimed at the saloon doorway. The gunfighter saw shadows moving inside, heard the low buzz of urgent conversation. It wouldn’t be long before someone took a chance and ventured out.

  Chameli and Asha untethered the horses from their tie rail.

  ‘Come with me,’ Brett told them, ‘all of you.’

  Brett walked his roan to the hanging sign, with Chameli and Asha leading the two mounts they’d untethered. The other Cheyenne girls were at their heels. At the head of the alley, Brett held up his hand, motioning them to gather around him as he checked the muddy street. The two hairy prospectors who’d been punching each other a few minutes ago now sat drinking coffee amicably outside the Two Jacks Card House. The same drunken miners he’d seen when he rode in were still sleeping it off on the hard wooden boardwalks. More importantly, the ageing whore on the wagon was still displaying her wares and the mule stood like it was frozen.

  Brett led the way alongside the boardwalk.

  Still no one challenged them. Maybe the townsfolk were mostly asleep. Speaking softly, Brett warned the girls to keep close to him. He turned to Chameli and Asha, reminding them to keep their eyes peeled and their guns ready.

  Then he began to walk his horse across the muddy main street.

  They were half way over when one of the prospectors out front of the Two Jacks bellowed out, ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Suddenly, faces pressed against windows, doors whined open and a customer emerged from Kate’s Cats brothel yanking up his trousers. Moments later, prospectors ventured out of the Painted Woman Shebang and Wildcat Camp sprang to life. Lamps were lit all over town. The wrinkled harlot on the wagon stared in bewilderment as Brett Cassidy and eight Indian girls loomed out of the darkness. Brett’s boots squelched in the deep mud as he led the roan right up to her.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, we need your wagon,’ he said tersely. ‘So get down unless you want a free ride to Cheyenne Territory.’

  ‘This wagon belongs to my boss!’ she wailed.

  Ignoring the screeching woman, Brett spoke in Cheyenne to the girls. ‘Unhitch the mule and back your horses into harness.’

  By now the Painted Woman patrons, furious their girls had been snatched from under their very noses, appeared at the head of their alley. Brett fired a single shot that tore through the hanging sign and sent them scattering. Then he saw shadowy figures outside the old law office. Two bullets thudding into the wall warned three inebriated miners he meant business and they went scurrying, one falling into a water trough in his haste to escape Brett’s slugs. By now Asha had the mule out of its harness and at Brett’s command the Indian girls dragged the old Kate’s Cat off the wagon. She lashed out at them, then tripped and fell sprawling into the mud. The Painted Woman’s patrons returned and this time their slugs peppered the side of the rocking wagon.

  Brett felt the hot breath of a bullet flying inches from his face. He didn’t want to kill any innocent townsfolk but he emptied both guns, his bullets scarring walls and ripping the big sign to shreds. As a consequence, most of the irate miners once more fled for cover and dozens of doors were slammed shut.

  But Brett figured the respite would be brief.

  He was an unwanted stranger and the patrons of Delaney’s saloon were aroused and angry. Some folks living in Wildcat Camp wouldn’t give a damn about the loss of a few Indian girls, but others, particularly those who frequented the Painted Woman, were infuriated. This crazy stranger was stealing their property!

  Darkness was Brett’s friend.

  He reloaded his guns as Chameli and Asha harnessed the two horses to the wagon. The screaming whore, plastered with sticky black mud, finally retreated to the boardwalk and ran into Kate’s Cats brothel. Brett ordered all the Cheyenne maidens to climb in to the wagon. They all scrambled on board and at Brett’s command the eldest squaw, who’d been captured at the fishing traps, slid on to the driving seat and grabbed the reins.

  ‘We’re moving out,’ Brett announced. ‘I’ll ride ahead. Chameli and Asha, you stake out in the back of the wagon.’

  Brett swung into the saddle. He leaned over and released the wagon brake. Wasting no time, he nudged the roan into a steady walk as he began to escort the cumbersome wagon through the clammy mud. Looking back over the street, Asha glimpsed the youngest of the two prospectors who’d so brutally initiated her. She despised him. She only had a derringer, but spurred by bitter hatred, she couldn’t resist pointing it at him and pulling the trigger. There was but one shot in her handgun and the bullet bored into the man’s upper left thigh. He buckled at the knees, crashed to the boardwalk and lay yelling for help.

  Riding ahead of the lumbering wagon, Brett reached the lamplight thrown by three saloons. None of these were owned by Delaney and they all had their resident, well-paid saloon girls. These girls actually cheered as they watched their Cheyenne opposition being taken out of town. It meant more customers for them. However, a few irate regulars who frequented the Painted Woman Shebang still persisted in chasing Brett and the Cheyenne girls. A couple of rifle bullets thudded into the rear of the escaping wagon. Other shots fired by prospectors who’d drunk too much and should be asleep in their quarters winged wide. One shattered the barber’s window. Another killed a pigeon on the roof of the only chapel in Wildcat Camp. Despite the inebriated condition of the mob swarming behind the wagon as it swayed past the undertaker’s, Brett decided to take no chances. One of their bullets might just find its target so he lifted his rifle from its scabbard, turned in the saddle and fired. Six rifle bullets, one by one, ploughed into the mud at their feet, scattering them once again, all except one stout miner, who practically lived in the Painted Woman Shebang. He was puffing and blowing as he ran up the street chasing
the escaping wagon. He loomed closer and when one of the maidens in the wagon screamed a timely warning, Chameli levelled the gun Brett had given her and fired. Her first shot was wide of her target, smashing the undertaker’s window. The second tore splinters from the boardwalk on the other side of the street, but when she fired again, her bullet was so close to the charging miner that it kicked mud into his face. He fled like a frightened rabbit.

  Brett urged his roan into a lope as they reached town limits.

  A couple more bullets were fired along main street but they winged well wide as the wagon swayed out of the lamp light into the night. The town fell silent. The men of Wildcat Camp who weren’t sensibly home in their beds at this hour gathered on the main street. Few were sober and they certainly resented these girls being snatched away from them, but most of them now conceded the Cheyenne maidens had proved to be disappointing. They didn’t have the passion and expertise of Kate’s Cats or any other ‘soiled doves’ in town. And anyway, Mr Delaney would find replacements. He always did. Aside from that consideration, pursuing the Indian girls would be risky out there in the darkness and these men of Wildcat Camp decided it was preferable to go back to their respective watering holes and have another drink – or two.

  Unchallenged now, Brett rode ahead of the rolling wagon.

  One hour out of Wildcat Camp, they left the main trail and took the thin track that forked towards Cheyenne Territory.

  With De Heus about to be measured for a coffin by the Wildcat Camp’s frowning, cigar-smoking undertaker, most of the Painted Woman’s patrons had gone back to their tents and cabins. Their host was dead, their girls had been snatched from under their very noses, so they might as well be getting some shut-eye. Only a handful remained to help themselves to free rotgut, including the old prospector who was still fuming at having been denied his time with Asha.

  This old timer rambled down to the river with a wooden bucket and scooped some water. The town was at last going to sleep as he stumbled back with the bucket and unceremoniously tipped the icy contents over Josh’s sprawled body.

  Josh quivered, moaned, then clutched air as the freezing deluge jerked him back from unconsciousness. Swearing, spitting blood, he sat up, drenched to the skin.

  ‘What – what the hell’s going on, Henry?’

  ‘That crazy stranger whipped you with his gun.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Josh exploded.

  Henry elaborated, ‘Stole the gals, all of them, then killed Anton. Shot him down like a dog in front of everyone.’ Josh stared at Henry, one of the many regulars in the Painted Woman Shebang. Muttering, he climbed unsteadily to his feet as the old prospector recalled what had happened.

  ‘You all let him just walk out of here?’ Josh asked incredulously.

  ‘He had the drop on us and he gave my gun – and yours – to the Injun gals. I was flat to this floor, but by all accounts, he just marched out with them. No one dared to slap leather, me included. They took Anton’s horse, and yours, and packed the gals into one of Mr Delaney’s wagons.’

  ‘Who was this loon?’

  ‘No one knows,’ Henry said helplessly.

  ‘Except me,’ the undertaker called out.

  Josh staggered across the brothel, then through the open door into the saloon where the town undertaker, Luther Lewis, had heard their conversation while just completing his careful measurement of the deceased. He prided himself on saving money by making his caskets the exact size needed.

  ‘You know who that stranger was?’ Josh asked hoarsely.

  ‘My father, bless his departed soul, once had a mortician’s parlour in Lincoln City,’ Lewis said eloquently. ‘That’s where I learned the blessed trade of helping people in their grief and sorrow.’

  ‘Quit the sales talk, Lewis,’ Josh snapped. ‘Just tell me what you know about this stranger.’

  ‘He’s a professional gunfighter, name of Mr Brett Cassidy,’ Lewis told him. ‘Killed a former lawman who was a disgrace to his badge. My father gave me the job of measuring the evil man.’ He smiled. ‘It was my first time.’

  ‘You sure about the name?’

  ‘Very sure, sir,’ Luther Lewis confirmed. ‘One of those escaping Indian women put a bullet through my front window. When I ran into my parlour and looked out on the street, I saw him plainly in the light thrown by Kate’s – uh – establishment. It was definitely him, Mr Brett Cassidy, professional hired gun.’ He shook his head. ‘I have no idea what he would be doing here.’

  ‘He came here for one obvious reason,’ Josh growled.

  ‘To steal our Cheyenne gals,’ Henry supplied.

  ‘To steal Mr Delaney’s gals,’ Josh corrected the oldster. ‘He owns this saloon and everyone and everything in it.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Henry agreed.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Delaney would want to know who this murdering thief is,’ Josh told them both. ‘I’ll ride to Red Butte now. In the meantime, Henry, I’m putting you in charge.’

  ‘Uh, me?’ Henry gulped.

  ‘Yeah, you know the rotgut prices. If customers want a gal, they’ll have to wait. I’m sure Mr Delaney will find a couple for me to bring back.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Josh.’

  ‘Ah, a promotion, Henry,’ the undertaker congratulated the old prospector. ‘Not quite the same as the late Mr De Heus, who has been promoted to Glory. Now can I prevail upon you to help me carry Mr De Heus back to my chapel?’

  Josh strode out of the Painted Woman. With his horse gone, he made his way to Delaney’s Freight Line. There would be saddles and horses there in the livery. He aimed to be out of town in ten minutes and be in Red Butte soon after sun-up. With Anton De Heus under the clay, maybe Mr Delaney would promote him to manager of the Painted Woman Shebang.

  He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Garth Delaney rose early, brewed coffee on his new Philadelphian cast iron potbelly stove and waited on his front verandah. Built on the hillock that shadowed Red Butte, his new stone house overlooked the town and its streets. His many enterprises were all profitable; he had so much money in the town bank that its manager almost licked his boots when he walked in the front door. His personal fortune had almost doubled in the last two years. After all, he had an empire. The freight line was raking in money and his ranches carried thousands of beeves. Once he was able to run his stock on that settler land in Lonesome Valley, he would truly be a cattle king. His saloons, especially the Last Chance in Red Butte, were making him richer by the day.

  Then of course, there were his latest businesses in Wildcat Camp.

  Yet Garth Delaney wanted more.

  He was a greedy man, never satisfied.

  Yet even though he virtually had all he needed, there was no Mrs Delaney. Sure, he could have Jessie and almost any other saloon woman he wanted, but Delaney figured a man of his wealth should be able to marry someone more suitable. Maybe the mayor’s comely daughter? Or a high society woman from New Orleans? Perhaps a mail order bride from the east? He could certainly afford the very best woman in the country and, once he’d settled the Lonesome Valley problem, he’d pay more attention to his personal needs.

  A glimmer of light signified dawn was breaking.

  He sipped his coffee, waiting impatiently.

  Ten minutes later a lone rider left town limits and latched on to the dusty trail that climbed to Delaney’s elevated home. Watching, Delaney frowned as the rider came closer. He was expecting two men. Something was wrong. He stood up as Buff Malloy emptied his saddle.

  ‘Where’s Cassidy?’ Delaney demanded.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Malloy said simply.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like I said, gone, Mr Delaney,’ Buff Malloy said. ‘Knocked on Jessie’s door just to remind him of his duty. She answered the door. She’d obviously been out of it and stank of wine and mumbled something about he must have gone in the middle of the night. When she woke up, which was just before I arrived,
her window was open. Figured he slipped out the back. Anyway, I checked the livery and sure enough, his roan horse was missing. I reckon the bird has flown, Mr Delaney.’

  ‘I gave him Jessie for the night as a signing-on gift,’ Delaney fumed. ‘Double-crossing bastard!’

  ‘I don’t think he even took advantage of your gift, Mr Delaney,’ Malloy said. ‘When I called, Jessie looked like she’d slept in her saloon dress.’

  ‘Makes him ungrateful too,’ Delaney said.

  ‘He’s probably riding home by now.’

  ‘All trails cross, Buff,’ Delaney reminded him. ‘Might take a while, but we’ll see him again.’

  ‘And the Kid will want to be there,’ Malloy said. ‘He owes him.’

  Delaney drank the last dregs of his coffee. ‘Anyway, forget about Cassidy for now. The job we talked about and planned for Cassidy to execute is now yours.’

  ‘Figured as much, Mr Delaney,’ Buff Malloy said.

  ‘Take one of the Lazy F boys with you.’

  ‘Grogan’s still in town. Saw him sleeping in the livery.’

  ‘Wake him up and do what needs to be done.’

  ‘Sure, Mr Delaney.’

  ‘You’re a loyal man, Buff,’ Delaney praised Malloy as he remounted his brown gelding. ‘Expect some extra pay this month.’

  Buff Malloy rode down the track back into Red Butte.

  Grogan was just awake, sitting hunched in the hay when Malloy strode into the livery stable.

  ‘Get some grub, saddle up and come with me,’ Malloy told him.

  The new day’s dazzling sun was clear of the eastern rims and Red Butte was stirring to life as the two men rode out. They headed past the stock yards and took the trail that swung past Red Butte’s fenced cemetery before turning into Lonesome Valley. First they rode by Delaney’s Lazy F ranch and then continued going further up the valley where settlers had fenced off open range.

  Here they left the trail, instead keeping to timber cover as they drifted past the first sodbuster acreage. They saw a new settler and his buxom young wife struggling to brand a calf. Malloy figured the man would have made a perfect target but Delaney had someone else in mind.