Nest of Vipers (9781101613283)

by Sherman, Jory

  Julio scrambled from his seat and went outside. He saw the three horsemen. They were walking their horses slow and looking into windows. They stopped in front of a saloon that was raucous with music from a small band.

  Julio crossed the street and held to the shadows. He saw the name of the saloon and memorized the letters.

  The three men turned their horses and stopped in front of some hitch rings. They dismounted and walked inside the saloon after securing their reins.

  Julio walked down opposite the saloon. Beside the sign there was a painting of a glitter gal with a short skirt, mesh stockings, and a wild look in her eyes. On the other side of the sign there were two girls with their legs up in the air as if kicking something. They, too, were scantily clad.

  Julio turned around and went back to the tavern. He sat down.

  “Yes, I saw them,” he said.

  “Curly and Nels?” Brad said.

  “And one other I have never seen before,” Julio said.

  Wil’s face turned ashen.

  “I know ’em,” he said. “They work for Jordan.”

  “I know. Those two I mentioned are the men who raped and murdered my wife,” Brad said.

  “What are you going to do?” Wilbur asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

  The waiter brought their food on a tray and set down the plates. Then he presented Brad with a bill. Brad paid him, and the waiter thanked him and walked away.

  “What do you think I’m going to do, Wil?” Brad asked.

  “I wonder who the third man is.”

  “Well, when we go down there, you can get a good look at him and tell me,” Brad said.

  “Oh, no,” Wilbur said. “I’m not getting into a gunfight. I don’t even have a gun on me.”

  “You can look and then wait outside,” Brad said. “With Julio.”

  “You mean you’re goin’ in there alone? Those two are killers, Brad. And, you’ll be outnumbered.”

  “Most men can’t shoot straight when they’re braced,” Brad said. “And if the distance is more than ten feet between us, they’ll likely miss with the first shot.”

  “You can’t count on that.”

  Brad patted the butt of his pistol. “No,” he said, “but I can count on this.”

  He dove into his food. He, too, was famished. He ate fast and so did Wilbur and Julio.

  “Let’s get us an after-dinner drink. What did you say the name of that saloon was, Julio?”

  “I did not say. There was picture paintings of the dancing girls and some letters, a ‘G,’ a ‘U,’ and a ‘Y,’ I think, and maybe an ‘S.’”

  “Guy’s Saloon,” Wilbur said. “I noticed it when we walked past it.”

  “Yeah. And, it was crowded,” Brad said. He rose from his chair. “Walk with me, boys,” he said. “Let’s see who opens the ball at Guy’s Saloon.”

  Wilbur’s face blanched.

  Julio gulped the last of his beer and hitched up his gun belt.

  Behind Brad’s back, as the three of them were leaving the tavern, Julio crossed himself.

  His lips moved in a silent prayer.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Brad stopped in front of Guy’s Saloon and looked at the gaudy paintings of glitter gals. Then he turned to Julio.

  “I want you to stay out here, maybe across the street, Julio. Wil and I will go in. He’ll stay long enough to tell me who that third man is, then I’ll send him out. Both of you wait for me. If you see a policeman or a constable, grab him and send him inside.”

  “What do you do, Brad?” Julio asked.

  “I’m trying now to hold down my anger. I don’t know what I’ll do once I see those two men who murdered Felicity. I’ll try to arrest them, probably.”

  “And, if you can’t arrest them?” Wilbur asked.

  “It all depends on what Curly and that Nels does. And if the other man gets in my way . . .”

  “As I said before, Brad, you’re outnumbered. Three to one.”

  “Pray for me,” he told Wilbur.

  “I will pray for you,” Julio said. “Ten cuidado.”

  “I’ll be careful, Julio. Maybe those two will surrender.”

  “You don’t know Dan Jimson and Nelson Canby the way I do, Brad,” Wilbur said. “They’re brutal men. Deadly with a gun. They don’t back down. That’s why Jordan hired them. No tellin’ how many notches they’ve got on their guns.”

  “I’ve run into their kind before, Wil.”

  “I doubt it. These aren’t your average killers. They’re merciless.”

  “They killed my wife,” Brad said. “I’m merciless, too, when it comes to those two.”

  “I’m glad I won’t be in there to see you shot to pieces by three hired guns,” Wilbur said.

  “Wish me luck?” Brad asked.

  “Luck to you, Brad,” Wilbur said.

  “Suerte,” Julio said. He crossed himself again as Brad and Wilbur headed for the bat-wing doors of Guy’s Saloon.

  “We’ll go to the darkest part of the bar, Wil, so maybe my face won’t be seen by those men.”

  “You lead the way, Brad. I’m shakin’ in my boots.”

  “So am I,” Brad said.

  But Brad was not shaking. Instead, he felt an inner calm, a state of being that focused on the two men who had murdered Felicity. He knew what kind of men they were. They were the kind of men who had no regard for human life and thought a woman was just something to be plundered and thrown away. Such men never felt the pangs of remorse. They were without conscience. They only thought of themselves and their own well-being. And such men were predators. They fed on the blood of other people. They killed without feeling. They took and never gave. As far as Brad was concerned, they were the lowest form of life on Earth. They were parasites, men who never contributed, never joined the human race, but instead fed off other people, sucking out the blood and then moving on to the next victim.

  Brad kept his head lowered as he pushed aside the swinging doors. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark corner at the end of the bar, and the stools there were empty. He made a beeline for that spot with Wilbur close behind him. He sat down on the last stool against the wall at the end of the L-shaped bar and still did not look up.

  He patted the stool next to him and Wilbur pulled it out and sat down.

  “Don’t make it too obvious, Wil, but look around and tell me if you see those three men,” Brad said.

  It did not take long for Wilbur to scan the tables in the room. While he was at it, he looked up at the second-floor balcony. He saw a number of doors beyond the wooden railing and spotted a man and one of the ladies going into one of them. The band was playing “She’ll Be Comin’ ’Round the Mountain,” and there were a few couples moving around the small dance floor. The tables near the bandstand were all full with three or four men at each table. At one of the near tables, he paused and let his gaze linger over the men seated there.

  “I see Nelson Canby at that near table, Brad. He’s a-settin’ with another man I can’t see clearly.”

  “Just two men?”

  “Just two.”

  “Take your time,” Brad said. “Maybe one of ’em’s on the dance floor.”

  Wilbur looked at the men who were dancing. He did not recognize any of them. Then his gaze went back to the table where Nels sat.

  “Holy smoke,” he said. “I know who the other man is with Canby.”

  “Is it Curly?”

  “No,” Wilbur said, “it’s Jack Trask’s older brother, Eugene. That’s Gene Trask sittin’ there sure as God made little green apples.”

  “Where’s Curly?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he went up to one of them rooms with a dance hall gal.”

  Brad looked at the all the doors up on the balcony. All were closed.

  A ba
rtender startled them when he came up to that end of the bar.

  “Gents,” he said. “You just gonna gawk, or do you hanker to wet your whistles?”

  “One beer,” Brad said. “One of us is just leaving.”

  “Any particular kind of beer? We make our own and that’s all we got.”

  “Just so it’s wet,” Brad said. He gave the barkeep a scathing look that told him he didn’t appreciate his being a smart aleck.

  The barkeep walked down to the middle of the bar and lifted a glass, which he put under a spout in a keg below the bartop.

  “Go on, Wil,” Brad said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “It’s still two against one, Brad.”

  “If you spot a constable out there, send him in. I’m going to try and arrest Canby.”

  “Watch out for Gene Trask. He’s a fast draw and a quick-tempered sort.”

  “Go on, Wil.”

  Wilbur got up and walked quickly to the swinging doors. In seconds he was gone. Brad kept his eyes on Canby the entire time to see if either he or Trask had seen Campbell. They showed no sign that they had even noticed him.

  The barkeep brought a beer that was an inch below the rim of the glass.

  “A buck,” he said.

  Brad fished in his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. He slid it onto the bartop.

  “You want company?” the man asked Brad.

  “No. I won’t be here long.”

  “Just holler if you do. We got plenty of females who’ll dance with you or play housekeeping.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Brad said.

  He did not drink his beer. Instead, he loosened his pistol in its holster and stood up. He walked slowly toward the table where Canby and Trask sat. They were both talking to each other and did not notice him as he came up and stood next to their table. He looked down at Canby.

  Canby looked up.

  His eyes widened and his mouth opened in surprise.

  “Nelson Canby,” Brad said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Felicity Storm.”

  The words hit Canby like a sledgehammer to the chest.

  Trask’s head jerked up and back as if he had been slapped with a slab of raw meat.

  “What?” Canby said.

  “You heard me. You’re also wanted for horse stealing, and I’m putting you under arrest.”

  “Like hell you are,” Canby said.

  He scooted his chair back and grabbed for his pistol.

  Trask pushed away from the table and stood up. He, too, started to drop a hand to the butt of his pistol.

  In a flash, Brad drew his pistol and cocked it as the barrel came up to bear on Canby.

  Canby’s pistol wasn’t halfway out of its holster when Brad squeezed the trigger.

  Men at the other tables jumped at the sound of the exploding powder.

  The bullet from Brad’s gun smashed into the juncture between Canby’s throat and his breastbone. A black hole appeared. Dust flew from his shirt and was quickly enveloped by a gush of red blood. Canby fell backward in his chair and hit the floor with a loud crash.

  Trask drew his pistol and raised it to fire at Brad.

  Brad swung his barrel toward Trask and squeezed the trigger.

  Such moments take no more than a second or a fraction of a second. That one small increment of time can seem like an hour to a man on the business end of a Colt .45. Time slows down and so, too, does the motion of the shooter.

  Trask stared into that dark gulf of time and space like a man under hypnosis. His pistol weighed a ton and his arm moved as if it were gripped in an iron cast.

  Brad’s pistol spewed lead and orange flame, showered sparks that winked out when they hit Trask’s shirt. His right arm sprouted a hole in it that paralyzed him so that time slowed even more.

  But Trask bit down on the pain in his shoulder and raised his gun. He thumbed the hammer back and squeezed the trigger.

  Brad ducked and sidestepped.

  Trask’s bullet sizzled over Brad’s head and whined over the bar, shattering the glass mirror. The bartenders ducked and so did the patrons seated on the stools. Men at the tables dove under them or pushed them onto their sides as they sought cover.

  The band stopped playing and the musicians scrambled off the bandstand.

  Brad shot from a crouch and blasted Trask square in his heart. There was a single burst of blood though the hole in his chest and he crumpled and fell to the floor, dead.

  The doors on the balcony opened in succession and a man stepped to the rail and looked down. He saw two bodies on the floor that he recognized.

  He stared at Canby and Trask in horror, then shifted his gaze to Brad, who stood up out of his crouch and swung his pistol around to cover the room.

  “Nobody move,” Brad shouted. “It’s all over.”

  On the balcony, Curly turned and ran back into the room. He strapped on his gun belt and pulled on his boots. The girl who was with him cowered on the bed.

  “What happened?” she shrieked.

  “Shut up, bitch,” he said and ran to the window. He pulled it open and stepped onto the roof and slid down it, then dropped to the ground. He ran between the buildings. He drew his pistol before he reached the street and ran to his horse. He crouched over and got to the hitch ring. In seconds he was in his saddle and whipping his horse up Larimer Street.

  “Hey, that’s Curly,” Wil shouted to Julio.

  Julio turned and saw the rider as he raced under gas-lit lamps and disappeared into the dark.

  “We better go into the saloon,” Julio said.

  “I heard four shots,” Wilbur said.

  They started for the saloon, but Brad emerged through the bat-wing doors before they reached the entrance.

  “Curly got away,” Wilbur said. “We didn’t even see him until he was too far away.”

  “He’s the one I want. Which way did he go?”

  Julio and Wilbur both pointed toward Sixteenth Street.

  “Damn,” Brad said and holstered his pistol. “Too bad our horses are stabled for the night.”

  “We can take Canby’s and Trask’s horses, try to catch him,” Wilbur said. “Julio can borrow one of the others hitched here.”

  “Good idea,” Brad said. He walked to the hitch ring and untied the reins to Canby’s horse. Wilbur loosened the reins to one of the horses. Julio untied the reins to a small horse and mounted up.

  Brad and Wilbur climbed into the saddles. The horses were skittery, but they brought them both under control.

  Without waiting for a reply, Brad dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks and galloped up Larimer. He was followed closely by Julio and Wilbur.

  Their backs shone under the street lamps, then darkened and lighted again and again. At the intersection of Larimer and Sixteenth, Brad reined up to listen.

  There was no way of telling which direction Curly had gone.

  They heard the clangs of a police wagon coming down the street.

  When they looked back down Larimer, the street was full of people. All seemed to be walking toward the saloon where two men lay dead on the floor.

  Brad cursed under his breath. “We lost him,” he said to Wilbur.

  “We could split up, maybe, and . . .” Wilbur said.

  “No. He got away,” Brad said.

  “What about Canby and Trask?” Wilbur asked.

  “They bought the farm,” Brad said.

  “I heard four shots,” Wilbur said.

  “Trask fired one of them. It went wild.”

  “Like you said.”

  “He had a slug in him when he shot. I was a little off when I shot him the first time.”

  “You amaze me, Brad.”

  “Sometimes I amaze myself,” Brad said. “Let’s ride back to our hotel. I su
re as hell can’t track at night in town.”

  “It would be hard,” Wilbur said.

  They turned their horses and rode slowly back up the street.

  A paddy wagon stood in front of Guy’s Saloon. There was a flurry of activity inside the saloon. Voices rose and fell as men all related what they had seen and heard.

  “I hope the police can sort it all out,” Brad said.

  “You might wind up a wanted man, Brad,” Wilbur said.

  “I doubt it. By the time the police finish questioning all the witnesses, they’ll have two dozen descriptions of me, and none of them will match what I really look like. It all happened so fast, and after that first shot, everybody in there became moles and started digging holes in the floor.”

  Wilbur chuckled.

  “The Denver police aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer,” Wil said. “From my experience with them.”

  “What’s the saying in Spanish, Julio, about tomorrow?” Brad asked.

  “Mañana será otro dia,” Julio said.

  “That’s right. Tomorrow’s another day,” Brad said.

  Julio dropped his borrowed horse off near the saloon and walked to the hotel.

  Brad and Wilbur hitched their horses in front of the hotel and waited for Julio.

  Voices floated on the night air and the crowds began to dwindle as people walked back to the various establishments that were still open.

  “Two down,” Brad thought, “and one to go.”

  He wanted Curly in the worst way. He wanted him to suffer before he died.

  Either with a bullet or the rope.

  It didn’t matter which.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next morning when Brad, Julio, and Wilbur went to breakfast at the Yum-Yum Tree on Colfax Avenue, Brad bought a copy of the Rocky Mountain News from a newsboy. The headline in large 76-point Bodoni Bold read as follows: “Unknown Gunman Slays Two in Larimer Saloon.”

  “Read it to us, Brad,” Wilbur said.

  “It says: ‘Two men were shot dead in the early evening last night inside Guy’s Saloon on Larimer Street. Witnesses could not identify the gunman. Their descriptions of the shooter varied according to local police.