Last Chance Saloon

by Cole Shelton

  As they rode, he recalled that other killing.

  Together with Grogan and two other Lazy F riders, they’d trapped outspoken settler Tom McBeath at gunpoint on a cliff top. They never fired a shot, instead hurling him over the cliff to his death below. McBeath had left behind a pretty wife. More than once Malloy had been tempted to ride over and call on his widow. After all, Harmony McBeath had no idea he’d taken part in the cold-blooded murder of her husband. It was an accident, the coroner had declared. Malloy grinned as he remembered taking Mr Delaney’s two hundred dollars bribe over to Coroner Leonard Makepeace’s place ten minutes before he left for the court hearing.

  They were adjacent to Harmony’s spread now and Malloy slowed his gelding as he saw the widow milking the solitary cow she owned. She was indeed a fine-looking woman and she must be missing what a man could give her. Yes, maybe he should call, whether she was willing or not, but not now because he had business to take care of, business with her neighbour. So he wrenched his mind off Widow McBeath and rode ahead of Grogan to a clump of large, smooth boulders overlooking the trail that followed Will Quade’s fence.

  Leaving their horses tied to an arrowhead pine, Malloy and Grogan climbed to the boulder crest.

  It was the perfect stakeout.

  Here, high above the trail, they could see the whole one hundred and sixty acres being farmed by Will and Amanda Quade. Lately, Delaney had been particularly irked by Quade. Despite his advancing years, Quade had become the unelected leader of the Lonesome Valley homesteaders and Delaney had heard that meetings uniting the settlers had been held regularly in his big hay barn. Now, Delaney had decreed, Will Quade must be eliminated.

  Holding his Smithfield rifle, Malloy lay flat between two boulders.

  Next to him, Grogan crouched alongside a mossy boulder. He carried a long hunting rifle.

  The acreage stretching below them was undulating grassland dotted with sheep and timber. A log cabin dwarfed by the barn had smoke curling languidly from its blackened stone chimney. Two dogs roamed the front verandah. Alongside the cabin was a small vegetable garden. The Quades were obviously both inside, but the two men staked out in the boulders would wait all day if necessary. In actual fact, they only had to wait half an hour before Will Quade opened the cabin door and began to stroll towards his barn.

  Malloy lifted his rifle and squinted down its barrel.

  He drew a careful bead on the old settler, aiming at his chest.

  Waiting till Quade made the barn, Malloy squeezed his trigger. The Springfield boomed and recoiled against his shoulder. With the gunshot echoing out over Lonesome Valley, Quade slumped against the barn wall. Blood blotched his shirt but he managed to keep his feet as his wife came screaming out of their cabin.

  ‘Reckon you just winged him, Buff.’

  Malloy fired a second shot that splintered into the barn inches from his head. Then Grogan flicked ash from his cigarette tip and fired his hunting rifle. It was Grogan’s shot that finally snuffed out the old homesteader’s life. Quade pitched headlong to the ground where his weeping wife threw herself over him. Just as Malloy and Grogan began to retreat to their horses, they heard Amanda’s poignant cry ring out over the valley. ‘You filthy yeller sons-of-bitches!’

  ‘Want me to take the woman too?’ Grogan asked. He patted his rifle and boasted, ‘Just one shot would shut her up forever. It’d be a real pleasure.’

  ‘No, leave her,’ Buff Malloy said. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Grogan said, shrugging off his disappointment.

  They reached their horses and mounted.

  Keeping to timber cover, they headed back down-valley.

  Half a dozen settlers who’d heard rifle fire and the woman’s high-pitched screaming were already riding the trail below them and Malloy motioned the Lazy F man to rein his horse behind a large wild dewberry bush as their dust rolled past.

  When the coast was finally clear, they took the passage that led through to Rattler Canyon where they joined the trail for Red Butte.

  It was closing in on high noon when they rode into the town and made straight for the Last Chance Saloon.

  Entering, they saw Delaney standing by the bar counter.

  Immediately, Malloy figured something was wrong, seriously wrong. Although he was aware that Garth Delaney had a Colt revolver in a shoulder holster concealed under his suit coat, he was now wearing a gun belt strapped around his waist. A second gun nestled in its right-side leather. Apart from his conspicuous weaponry, Delaney’s face had changed into a mask of angry hostility. Kid Jorgenson, his arm still in its sling, stood scowling beside his boss.

  ‘Job’s done,’ Malloy announced quietly.

  ‘Yeah,’ Grogan chimed in, ‘Quade’s ready for Boothill.’

  But there was no compliment from Delaney.

  Instead, he declared bluntly, ‘We’ve been betrayed.’

  Malloy and Grogan stared at their boss.

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Delaney?’ the Lazy F man asked.

  Delaney cocked a thumb at the man drinking alone under the balcony.

  It was Josh, bruised and exhausted, here from Wildcat Camp.

  Delaney spoke in low tones, ‘Josh just rode in with some bad news concerning Brett Cassidy. First I thought Cassidy had just decided to turn his back on our deal and ride home, wherever that is, but it seems I made a damn fool mistake. He’s a snake-in-the-grass!’

  ‘Told you all that Cassidy was trouble,’ Jorgenson said, smirking, unable to hide his satisfaction at being proved right.

  Delaney snapped, ‘Button up, Kid.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, Mr Delaney,’ Jorgenson said, his grin fading.

  Delaney resumed, ‘Last night he snuck out of Jessie’s room, but he didn’t just vamoose. He rode to Wildcat Camp.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘For the crazy purpose of stealing my Cheyenne gals.’

  ‘Hell’s fires!’ Malloy croaked.

  ‘Apparently Cassidy said he was taking the girls home where they belong,’ Delaney quoted what Josh had been told when he came to.

  ‘You mean, Cheyenne Territory?’

  ‘Cassidy busted them out of my Painted Woman Shebang.’

  Malloy was incredulous. ‘What! Singlehanded?’

  ‘From what Josh said, yes, and in doing so, shot and killed our good friend, Anton De Heus,’ Delaney told them.

  ‘Anton dead!’ Malloy exploded, his cheeks reddening in anger.

  ‘Being buried today.’

  ‘There’s only one possible reason why Cassidy would ride all the way to Wildcat Camp, steal those gals and double-cross us,’ Garth Delaney said grimly. ‘He has to be working for those bloody homesteaders and part of his job must be to take those gals back to their Cheyenne villages to stop the Injun raids on Lonesome Valley.’

  ‘In other words, Cassidy is a turncoat,’ Jorgenson said.

  ‘But Cassidy’s a professional gunfighter,’ Malloy protested, frowning. ‘How could that bunch of lousy penny-pinching sodbusters afford to pay him more than you? Doesn’t make sense to me.’

  ‘I don’t know how he came to work for them, but he must be on their payroll,’ Delaney replied. ‘Right now he’s probably arrived in Cheyenne Territory smoking a peace pipe after returning those gals to their menfolk. That might stop the Injuns going on the warpath against the Lonesome Valley settlers, but it won’t stop Cassidy getting what’s coming to him when next he shows his face.’

  ‘If he dares to show his face,’ Malloy said.

  ‘Maybe he’ll just return those women and keep riding,’ Grogan suggested.

  ‘A man like Cassidy wouldn’t do that,’ Delaney predicted. ‘He’s been hired by those homesteaders but he’s only earned half his pay. That means we’ll be in his sights for sure.’

  The bartender served drinks for them all.

  ‘However, we’ll be ready for him,’ Delaney added confidently.

  ‘I can’t imagine him actually ridi
ng into Red Butte,’ Malloy said.

  ‘I agree with Buff,’ Grogan said, becoming decidedly uneasy.

  ‘A man who’d walk into a brothel and take out eight Injun whores would ride in anywhere. He’ll come, sure enough. And when he does show his face in town, we’ll be ready for him,’ Delaney told them. ‘As you can see, Josh isn’t up to it. I’m sending him back to Wildcat Camp, so we’ll need to get ourselves some insurance. Grogan, finish your drink, then ride straight to the Lazy F and bring back a couple of hardcases.’

  Grogan didn’t need to consider for long. ‘I suggest Parker and the Mex. There are stories about Parker. He definitely killed a man in Californy. Some say he shot him in the back and the law’s after him. As for the Mex, well, everyone knows he’s just plain mean, very handy with a gun or knife.’

  ‘Fetch both men,’ Delaney told him. ‘Bring them here cold, hard and sober.’

  ‘Sure, Mr Delaney,’ Grogan agreed, gulping down the last of his whiskey.

  Waiting until Grogan left through the batwings, Delaney turned to Malloy and Jorgenson. ‘We need to make plans. Come to my office.’

  Brett Cassidy had escorted the Cheyenne girls all safely back to their camp where he was thanked by Leaning Bear and the tribal elders. No more war smoke would rise. They would live at peace with the white settlers. It was Leaning Bear himself who escorted Brett out of Indian Country.

  The gunfighter was in the saddle all day.

  Now he came out of the dusk as the sad, subdued singing of the poignant hymn ‘Shall We Gather at the River’ rose above the cemetery, disturbing the evening stillness. He rode slowly, almost at the end of his long trail out of Cheyenne Territory. He’d been headed for Red Butte but the weeping and the motionless shadows around graves made the gunfighter draw rein and sit saddle. Preacher O’Toole was conducting the funeral service, now reading the prayers slowly and carefully. Brett ran his eyes over the mourners. Most of them weren’t smartly dressed like most townsfolk would be. Then his eyes came to rest on Harmony McBeath standing next to the widow. Like most other women, Harmony wore a black hat and dress. He figured these folks had to be homesteaders.

  Reverend O’Toole raised his voice and said the name of the man he was burying. That name echoed out over the graveyard. It was William Quade.

  Brett nudged his roan closer, right to the very edge of the mourners.

  ‘William Augustus Quade was a good, decent, hard-working man, the very salt of the earth,’ Preacher O’Toole praised the deceased man. His voice began to break. ‘He didn’t deserve to be gunned down by someone skulking in the rocks like a lowdown, cowardly coyote.’

  The mourners murmured their approval at the preacher’s graphic summation of the crime. They were angry, but Brett Cassidy also saw the fear on their faces. Their leader had been murdered. Who would be next? Brett wouldn’t need to ask anyone who they thought had given the order to kill an old man like Quade. They knew the answer; so did he. Still in the saddle, Brett Cassidy looked down at Red Butte. Lights were being lit all over the town. Doubtless Delaney and his crew were down there now, probably gloating over the murder of another homesteader. He felt anger mounting inside him – not hot anger, but cold and calculating.

  He knew what he had to do.

  Preacher O’Toole’s graveside homily was drawing to its close.

  Brett heard Widow Quade’s loud weeping and watched as Harmony placed a comforting arm around her shoulder now the time had come for the final committal. Four sturdy homesteaders used two ropes to lower the pine box into the grave.

  ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .’

  Preacher Jason O’Toole recited the words he’d read out many times, far too many times, since coming to Red Butte.

  Now he was closer, Brett looked over the mourners again. He recognised Mrs Tully who was throwing a handful of dust over the receding coffin. It was then Brett saw another shadowy rider on the far side of the graveyard, someone who’d been watching proceedings without being part of the funeral. He was in the saddle, a stout, middle-aged man with a black moustache curling over his crooked teeth and fat lips. He wasn’t dressed in mourning clothes, but wore a stained apron over his red check shirt and creased black pants. Brett had seen the silent watcher before.

  He was the bartender in Delaney’s Last Chance Saloon.

  And this rider had glimpsed Brett too.

  Even before Quade’s casket crunched the clay at the bottom of the grave, the bartender hastily backed his grey gelding and rode swiftly away into the ghostly twilight. Brett had no doubt where he was headed.

  Within minutes Delaney would hear his news that the gunfighter was back.

  The mourners paid their last respects, then thanked Preacher O’Toole and shook his hand. Just as O’Toole slipped his prayer book into a shoulder bag and made ready to leave, Brett saw his wife Tabitha. She caught sight of him too and clutched her man’s arm. It was as if she knew there was going to be killing and she was scared. Brett nodded to her before she hustled her preacher husband back to their horse and buggy. Two of the homesteaders began shovelling dirt to fill the grave; others were standing back, silent and tearful. Mrs Quade went to join them. Harmony was about to do the same when she glimpsed the tall gunfighter motionless, starkly etched against the setting sun.

  ‘Brett!’ she exclaimed, hastening from the grave.

  The gunfighter dismounted as she reached him. ‘Just rode in.’

  ‘They murdered Will in cold blood,’ Harmony blurted out. ‘Gunshots rang out over the valley, some of the men went over and found tracks that led back to town. We all know who sent those men!’

  ‘Sorry about Will, he was a good man,’ Brett said gently.

  ‘More than just a good man,’ Harmony said. ‘Will Quade was the heart and soul of this valley.’ She nodded to the forlorn group of mourners lingering in the dusk. ‘Now these folks are talking about leaving their spreads and moving on.’ She turned from looking at them and said hastily, ‘No one’s blaming you that Will died. Will had told us you’d gone on a mission on our behalf, to find those Cheyenne girls and return them to their villages so there wouldn’t be any more Indian raids.’

  ‘The girls are home and the chief assured me you settlers won’t be raided,’ Brett told her. ‘There’s just one last thing I need to do.’

  Brett looked past the cemetery to the lights of Red Butte.

  ‘You’ll have no one to help you,’ Harmony reminded him.

  ‘Not looking for help,’ he said.

  Harmony whispered, ‘Please be careful, Brett Cassidy, and I’m saying that for a reason.’

  Their eyes met in the dying light as her hand brushed his. Then, impulsively, Harmony reached up, cupped his face with her trembling hands and pressed her soft lips to his. It was a quick kiss which he returned for a few fleeting moments before she stepped back from him. She was suddenly aware that the other homesteaders had seen what had happened between them but she didn’t care.

  ‘That’s the reason, Brett,’ she said as he climbed back into the saddle.

  ‘Ride home with the others, Harmony,’ he advised, adding softly, ‘I’ll be back later.’

  ‘I pray you will,’ Harmony murmured fervently.

  Brett gathered up his reins.

  He took a last look at the men filling Will’s grave where his widow wept and watched the dirt hitting the coffin, then he glanced at the homesteaders huddled together under two tall spruce trees.

  Finally, he looked at Harmony and saw the light of hope in her eyes.

  The gunfighter nudged his roan into a walk and headed for Red Butte.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The last glow of sundown faded into the gathering darkness and a sudden chill wind whispered like a ghost from the distant mountains as Brett Cassidy reached the edge of Red Butte. Lamps were being lit all over town, mostly in homes, very few along First Street where just half a dozen lanterns hung under boardwalk verandahs. The gunfighter faced a street of dark shadows and even
darker alleys. He rode slowly, one hand resting on his right side gun.

  He drew adjacent to the preacher’s parsonage. Jason and Tabitha O’Toole had just arrived home minutes ago and they hadn’t as yet lit an inside lamp. But they were there at their front window, watching him ride by.

  Then Tabitha drew the curtains sharply across.

  Brett rode by the Tabernacle Chapel, then the Quaker Meeting House.

  An owl hooted from the old loft behind the blacksmith’s forge. Smoke still wisped from the forge but, like most other townsfolk, the blacksmith was nowhere to be seen.

  The lamp hanging from a hook outside the Black Deuce Card House cast a faint red light over its open door. Brett heard no sound from inside but cigarette smoke hung in the open doorway. This was a Delaney enterprise so Brett was doubly wary as he rode by. The law office was shut, in complete darkness. He figured that both badge-wearers would be safely home. He rode further down the street. The bartender would have alerted Delaney by now, so he could be facing a stacked deck, but he’d faced others in the past and lived.

  But this would definitely be the last time.

  This was to repay a debt.

  By now he was close to the Last Chance Saloon.

  Usually it was well lit, but a solitary lamp glowed under its verandah. Its windows were clogged with dust but he could just glimpse another single lamp through the glass pane. Then he heard the soft tinkle of the piano but nothing else, no conversation, no clink of glasses, just silence. He drew adjacent to Delaney’s Freight Line Office. It was wreathed in darkness. So was the Red Butte Lodging House that was almost opposite the saloon. He glimpsed movement in the lodging house foyer. It was dark, like nearly every other building on First Street, but someone was there.

  ‘Mr Cassidy! Mr Cassidy!’ came the urgent summons from Widow Tully who was hidden in the darkness. The resentment at Delaney for short-changing her rose to its crescendo. She whispered, ‘Man with rifle staked out in here! Third window!’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Brett said softly.