The more Yarborough thought about it, the more convinced he became that he had been handed an opportunity that few men of his character ever had. Finally deciding he would be a fool to pass up the chance to take over the town, he informed his partners. “I’m fixin’ to run for sheriff of this town,” he told them while eating breakfast at the Cowboy’s Rest. His comment caused barely a ripple among his companions, none of whom thought he was serious. “I’m runnin’ fair and square,” Yarborough continued. “So we’ll vote on it right now. How many want me to be sheriff? Raise your hands.” He held up his arm and waited.
Red, his battered face barely inches from the food on his plate, immediately held up his hand without raising his head. Tiny and Troy, being in doubt as to whether or not Yarborough was really asking them to vote, hesitated, but under Yarborough’s steady glare, raised their hands as well.
“There, then,” Yarborough announced. “We’ve had us an election and it was a unanimous decision. I accept the job. The next thing is to let everybody in town know. We’ll tell everybody on both sides of the street—soon as we finish eatin’.”
When they finished and got up to leave, Yarborough said, “Might as well start with Abe.” And he called the bartender over to the table. “Just thought you’d like to know there’s a new sheriff in town.”
Abe looked genuinely surprised, startled in fact. “A new sheriff? I ain’t heard nothin’ about a new sheriff.”
“You’re hearin’ about it now,” Red informed him.
“That’s right,” Yarborough said. “There was an election and they voted me in as sheriff. I’ll be settin’ myself up in the sheriff’s office right away and I’ll need a key to the front door. Who do you reckon has it?”
“I don’t know,” Abe replied. “Arthur Campbell, I reckon. He’s the mayor. Pete Little might have one. He used to work for John Henry, cleanin’ the jail up and fetchin’ meals for the prisoners.”
“Where does he stay?” Yarborough asked.
“In the jail most of the time, but he’s got a room in the back of the feedstore.” Abe paused then and slowly shook his head. “So you’re the new sheriff, huh?”
“That’s a fact,” Yarborough said, deadly serious. “And you’d best know that I aim to run a strict town. And I expect to get me and my deputies’ meals free, too.”
Abe cocked a suspicious eye toward him. “Hell, I can’t do that. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Knowles about that. He’s the owner.”
Yarborough paused to consider that. After a moment, during which he stared at Abe with menacing eyes squinting from underneath knotted eyebrows, he said, “I expect you’d wanna do it to keep any trouble from happenin’ in here.”
The intent of his message was not lost on Abe. “Maybe so.”
“Good,” Yarborough responded. “You wanna stay on the right side of the law.”
They walked out without offering to pay for their food or the bottle Red picked up on his way out.
Outside, Red laughed and gave Yarborough a pat on the back. “Damned if you didn’t buffalo ol’ Abe in there. You had him so turned around on that sheriff story he didn’t know what to think. Got us some free grub and a bottle, too.”
“That warn’t no story,” Yarborough replied, causing Red to recoil slightly.
“You mean you meant what you were sayin’? Bein’ the new sheriff and all?”
“Damn right I meant it,” Yarborough came back. “I’m plannin’ to milk this damn town for every penny I can get out of it. And the best way to do that is to be the law. That’s what we’re gonna do. The next one I wanna set straight is Arthur Campbell. Abe said he’s the mayor, so he can let everybody else know that we’ll be takin’ care of the town.”
“That’s a helluva lot for these folks to swallow,” Troy commented. He couldn’t help wondering if Yarborough might be a little touched in the head. He was especially skeptical since everyone in town knew he was the one who shot the sheriff and hightailed it. He had assumed that the sole reason they had come to town was to rob a couple of the businesses, and if they found him, kill Harley Branch. Then they would ride out of the territory to spend their money in Montana or Texas. “I ain’t sure we can pull the wool over everybody’s eyes.”
“You just watch,” Yarborough said. “They’ll go along without givin’ us any trouble a’tall, ’cause they’ll be scared not to. Now you and Red go on up to them other saloons and spread the word there’s a new sheriff takin’ over. I’m gonna go across the street to the sheriff’s office and see if I can get in. I’ll tell everybody I see ’bout the election. And Red, keep your eye out for Corina. She’s gotta be hidin’ somewhere.”
They split up then to inform the town of the new deal.
Yarborough found the padlock missing from the door of the sheriff’s office and smoke coming out of the stovepipe. He walked inside to find Pete Little sitting beside the small stove in the center of the room, drinking a cup of coffee. The meek little man was startled when the formidable figure of Flint Yarborough suddenly appeared in the open door, followed by the even more menacing hulk of Tiny Weaver.
Pete jumped to his feet, splashing some of his coffee onto the floor in the process. “The sheriff ain’t here,” he blurted.
“Yes, he is,” Yarborough replied. “You’re lookin’ at him. Who the hell are you?”
“Pete Little. I help out around here—keep the place clean for Sheriff Black, bring the prisoners’ food from the dinin’ room—when we got prisoners—stuff like that. Right now, we ain’t got nobody locked up, since the sheriff got shot.” He looked back and forth between the smirking Yarborough and the grinning Tiny, not sure how he should react.
Yarborough took a minute to decide what to do with the little man. He seemed incapable of causing him any problems. “All right, I reckon you can keep your job, long as you keep a warm fire goin’ and keep the place clean. I need a key to that padlock for the door. You got an extra one?”
“Yes, sir,” Pete answered, “in the desk drawer.” He watched while Yarborough opened the drawer and found the extra key. “You gonna be here permanent, or just till Sheriff Black gets back?”
Before Yarborough answered, the door opened again and Troy walked in. “Red said he’d meet you at the hotel. He’s gone to the general store.”
Ignoring him, Yarborough remained focused on Pete. “Whaddaya mean, till Sheriff Black gets back? He’s dead, ain’t he?” He glanced at Troy then, looking for confirmation.
Yarborough wasn’t the only one staring at Womack, for Pete instantly recognized the man who had shot John Henry Black. It struck him then just who he was dealing with, and he feared that he had said too much if they had thought John Henry was dead. “I don’t know,” he blurted.
“You don’t know?” Yarborough demanded. “You just said he was comin’ back, and I don’t know anybody that’s come back from hell. Now, is he dead or not, and if he ain’t, where is he?”
Pete was not the smartest man in town, but he was sharp enough to realize what was in the process of taking place. It looked like the same thing that had happened in Laramie when Big Steve Long took over the marshal’s job. His eyes grew as large as saucers as he struggled to think how best to answer Yarborough without angering the fearsome gunman.
“He’s stallin’, Yarborough,” Tiny decided and made as if to grab Pete by the shirtfront.
“No, sir! No, sir!” Pete fairly screamed, backing away. “I ain’t stallin’. I just don’t know for sure if John Henry’s dead or not! All I know is that he was shot two times and he was pretty bad off, but I don’t know what happened to him.” He prayed they believed him, because the big simple-looking man seemed as if he would enjoy beating the truth out of him.
“You expect me to believe you don’t know where they took him after he was shot?” Yarborough pressed.
“No, sir,” Pete blurted. “I mean, yes, sir. I just stayed low in my room till everythin’ got quiet again. I’d sure-enough tell you if I knew.”
&
nbsp; “Where’d he stay before he got shot?” Yarborough asked.
“Most of the time he stayed right here, sleepin’ in the cell,” Pete lied, knowing he would be sealing John Henry’s death if he told them the sheriff had a room in the hotel. “They took him outta town somewhere is all they told me.”
“Was there a funeral for the sheriff?” Yarborough asked.
“No, sir, I don’t reckon.”
“Then he ain’t dead.” Yarborough looked accusingly at Womack. “I thought you said you killed the son of a bitch.”
“I said I thought I killed him,” Womack said. “I put two bullets in him and he went down.” He paused, then added, “And he didn’t get up again. Hell, I didn’t have time to wait around to see how bad he was wounded. There was a helluva lotta folks shootin’ at me.”
Yarborough hesitated while he thought the situation over to decide if it mattered to him if Black was alive or dead. If he was hurt as bad as Yarborough had been led to believe, it was doubtful he’d be any threat to him. On the other hand, it might be better to eliminate the former sheriff so there wouldn’t be any question of the outlaw’s authority. “I wanna find the son of a bitch and make sure he ain’t gonna be no trouble,” he finally said.
“Most likely took him to one of the farms or ranches close by,” Womack suggested. “Anyway, he ain’t likely to cause us any trouble. Hell, he’ll probably die. I put two slugs in his chest, dead center.”
“I reckon you’re right. Let’s go to the hotel and talk to His Honor, the mayor,” Yarborough said, much to the relief of a severely shaken Pete Little.
* * *
“Where’s your daddy?” Yarborough asked Campbell’s young son, Sonny, when the three gunmen walked in the hotel lobby. “I need to talk to him.”
“He ain’t back from breakfast,” Sonny said. “Is there something I can help you with?”
His father had cautioned him to be polite to the four outlaws so as not to provoke them. The merchants of the town were going to have to do something about them, but for the time being he told Sonny they were forced to tolerate them. And hopefully, maybe they would move on to some other town before that became necessary.
Yarborough was about to tell him to go get his father, but paused when he heard someone on the stairs behind him. He turned to see a man coming down from the second floor, a small black bag in his hand. The man hesitated for a moment as if undecided whether to proceed down the steps or not. Since it was not Arthur Campbell, Yarborough returned his attention to Sonny, only to pause again when a thought occurred to him.
Turning quickly then to catch the man before he reached the door, he took another look at the bag the man was carrying. It looked like the kind of bag a doctor would have. “You’re a doctor, right?” Yarborough blurted.
“I am,” Doc Marion answered and continued toward the door until Tiny stepped in his way.
“What’s your hurry, Doc?” Tiny asked, thinking that Yarborough wanted to inform him that he was the new sheriff.
“I’ve got patients to tend to,” Doc answered brusquely.
Struck with a feeling that he was on to something, Yarborough asked, “Like one you just tended to upstairs, right, Doc?” He was encouraged by the immediate look of concern he saw in the doctor’s eyes.
“A lot of folks get sore throats and runny noses this time of year,” Doc answered, hoping to discourage any more questions.
“Bullet wounds, too, right, Doc?” Yarborough pressed, enjoying the game of words. “How ’bout it? Is ol’ John Henry Black gonna make it?”
Red and Troy were on to the game. They turned to grin expectantly at Doc Marion. Tiny, a step slower to appreciate their luck in bumping into the doctor, just continued to grin.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss my patients with anyone,” Doc replied. “But this patient might have pneumonia, so I’m advising everybody not to have contact with him.” He paused briefly. “I mean her,” he added, hoping to discourage their interest in his patient.
He could see that his attempts to throw them off were in vain, however, when Red asked, “Is it the kind of pneumonia you catch from a .44 slug?”
His question was followed by chortles from the amused outlaws.
Disappointed that he had blindly blundered into the ambush, Doc tried to end it. “Well, I haven’t got time to waste here. I’ve got patients to see.”
“Right, Doc,” Yarborough said. “We don’t wanna keep your patients waitin’, so you can go see ’em just as soon as you tell us which room John Henry Black is in.”
Doc blanched, realizing he might have inadvertently brought disaster down upon the sheriff. Still, he tried to think of something to keep them away from his patient, who was lying helpless in his room upstairs. “I told you, that patient upstairs is suffering from pneumonia. Sheriff Black is dead and that’s all I can tell you.” He stepped around Tiny and hurried to the door.
Tiny drew his pistol and prepared to go after him, but Yarborough stopped him. “Let him go. You never can tell, one of us might need a doctor. Besides, he’s already told us what we need to know, and this young feller can tell us which room Black is in.” He turned to lock eyes with Sonny.
Sonny immediately began to fidget and took a step back from the desk.
“There ain’t but five rooms upstairs,” Yarborough reminded him. “Me and my boys are in two of ’em, so that don’t leave but three to look in. You can keep your mouth shut and we’ll just kick them other three doors off the hinges. Your daddy most likely wouldn’t like that, so you might as well save us the time and your daddy’s doors. Which room is he in?”
“Last room at the end of the hall, by the back stairs,” Sonny answered. It was plain to see there was nothing he could do to keep them out of the sheriff’s room, so he handed Yarborough the key when he held out his hand. And since they immediately started for the stairs, there was no way he could alert Black of their coming. He stood helpless until they all climbed up the stairs, then he ran to the hotel dining room to tell his father.
John Henry heard the key in his door and looked at the big clock on the wall. It was too early for Mary Lou to be bringing his dinner. It hadn’t been that long since she had brought him his breakfast. Doc had just left after giving him two teaspoons of laudanum. There had not been enough time to expect any relief from the pain in his chest, and he winced when he had to raise his head in order to see the clock. Consequently, he refrained from raising his head any more than necessary, and as a result, he didn’t know who his visitors were until they were already in the room.
“Good mornin’, Sheriff Black.”
The words struck a chord of doom in the wounded man’s soul, no less than had they been spoken by Satan, himself.
“I’m here to make sure you’re nice and comfortable,” Yarborough said. “You shoulda saved me the trouble and died when Troy, here, shot ya.” Hearing a raspy response from the helpless man that he couldn’t understand, Yarborough leaned close and asked, “What was that?”
“I’ll wait for you in hell,” Black said as clearly as he could manage.
“Ha!” Yarborough responded, delighted with the doomed man’s defiance. “Well, you’ll be waiting a long time, ’cause I ain’t plannin’ to get there for quite a spell yet.” He jerked one of the pillows from under Black’s head and slammed it down over his face. When John Henry tried to open his mouth to get air, Yarborough stuffed one end of the pillow down his throat. The desperate man refused to die, clawing weakly at his attacker until Yarborough had to ask for help. “Die, damn you,” he cursed. “Here, Tiny, give me a hand,” he ordered, whereupon the hulking giant cheerfully complied, grabbing Black by his throat and wringing the life from him.
* * *
Having waited no longer than it took the four men to reach the top of the steps, Sonny ran through the hallway to the dining room door. Startled when he looked up from his breakfast to see his son burst through the doorway, Arthur Campbell was at once alarmed. He was certain if th
ere was trouble, it had to do with the town’s unwelcome guests. Seated at the table with him, John Beecher, the town’s blacksmith, almost knocked his coffee cup onto the floor when Sonny cried out, “Sheriff Black!
“They went up to his room!” He did not have to say who.
Mary Lou and Maggie were equally alarmed and rushed to the table to hear Sonny’s report.
“I didn’t tell ’em the sheriff was up there!” Sonny implored. “They saw Doc Marion come down and figured it out right away.”
What to do? Campbell and Beecher looked at each other, each waiting for the other to say. They were the only two customers left in the dining room, purposely having a late breakfast. It was actually a meeting to decide what to do about reviving the vigilance committee to handle the new outlaw problem, and the lack of interest from most of the merchants. The problem had occurred once before, resulting in several lost lives.
Finally, reluctant to volunteer, Beecher asked, “What do you think, Mr. Mayor?”
“I don’t know,” Campbell replied, then asked his son, “How long have they been up there?”
“No longer than it took me to run in here!” Sonny answered.
“Somebody’s got to do something,” Mary Lou interrupted. “We can’t leave John Henry up there by himself with those killers.”
“There’s not much we can do,” Campbell said. “With just John and me against four hardened gunmen, we wouldn’t stand a chance. We need to get more of our men involved—Gordon Luck, Jim Low, Leon Bloodworth—we need more than just the two of us.”
“Somebody’s got to do something to help him,” Mary Lou insisted. “I’ll go up there.”
“No,” John Beecher said, forced to volunteer to save face. “It ain’t your place to go up against those outlaws. I’ll go. I ain’t heard any gunshots, so they might not be plannin’ to kill him. Maybe I can make ’em see he ain’t in any shape to give ‘em trouble and they’ll just leave him be.”
“You can’t trust those men, John,” Campbell cautioned. “You be careful you don’t get shot.”
“You can count on that,” Beecher said. He drew his handgun and spun the cylinder to make sure it was fully loaded. He retrieved his hat from the back of the chair next to his, settled it squarely on his head, and rose to his feet. With a determined nod to Campbell, he turned and started for the door.
Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing Page 16