by Ralph Cotton
“Hey, little gal,” said Jimmie Turner, one of Bouchard’s Double D cowhands. “Where you off to this hour of morning?”
“Please, turn me loose!” Angel pleaded with him. “Something terrible has happened to Miami and Suzzette!”
“Aw, now,” said Turner, his voice slurred, his eyes red and shiny from a night of smoking opium. “How terrible can it be?” He held her firmly as she struggled against him.
“Turn me loose,” she shouted. “Miami is shot dead and Suzzette has been pistol-whipped! I’m gone for the doctor.”
Even in his opium stupor he began to realize the gravity of Angel’s words. “Dead? Pistol-whipped?” He tried shaking his head to clear it a bit. “—I heard some shots awhile ago,” he said, still holding Angel by her shoulders. “Who did it?”
Seeing his condition, Angel pleaded, “Please, let me go! I need to get help!”
“Who did it? Turner demanded, his temper flaring, fueled by the opium.
“The sheriff did it!” Angel said. “He went crazy, killed Miami and tried to kill Suzzette! Please let me go!”
“The sheriff, huh?” said Turner, turning her loose, staggering a step forward. “What kind of sheriff would do something like that!”
But Angel Andrews didn’t answer. She had already hurried along the alley away from him, in the direction of the doctor’s office.
On their way back from the doctor’s office where Lematte had the shard of glass removed from his shoulder, Mad Albert took note of the glaring eyes of the townsfolk. “How bad has it gotten between you and the town leaders?” Ash asked, the two having already talked some while the doctor gathered and sterilized his surgical tools.
“I had to bullwhip a councilman,” said Lematte, “if that tells you anything.” He wore a sling around his shoulder supporting his right forearm, but the doctor had to run the sling across his chest to his left shoulder to keep it off of the wound.
“Mad Albert chuckled darkly. “I always seem to miss the fun times.” They walked on toward a restaurant across from the sheriff’s office.
Lematte gave a wicked grin. “You might have missed the get-acquainted part of the show, but I’m counting on you being here for the main attraction.”
They stopped out front of the restaurant for a moment before stepping inside. Lematte gestured with his free hand, taking in the whole town from end to end. “When I get this town whipped into shape, I expect to have at least three more saloons running night and day. Gambling, whores, liquor, dope, entertainment! You name it, Somos Santos will have it!”
“Sort of a Sodom and Gomorrah right here in Tejas, eh?” said Mad Ash.
“Yeah,” said Lematte. “Something like that.”
“At any rate,” he continued, “I’ve already had some resistance from the town council, and I expect more at any time.” He pointed toward a drover hotel a half block away, where a line of Double D horses stood at the hitch rail. “I’ve also got trouble coming from this bunch of cowhands and a friend of theirs.”
“Cowhands, opposed to gambling, whoring, and drinking?” Mad Albert shook his head. “What is happening to this great nation of ours?”
“It’s not that they’re opposed to drinking, gambling, and whatnot,” said Lematte. “I think it’s a matter of just because I’m a lawman I’m not supposed to make any money.”
“Shame on them,” said Ash, looking back and forth along the street.
“Yeah,” said Lematte, looking perplexed. “I’ve never understood that way of thinking. I always say the best way to control human vice is to own it.” He shrugged. “You know how cowhands get these stupid notions about what’s right and wrong.”
“What’s the story on you and those three whores?” Mad Albert asked.
“That was mostly personal,” said Lematte. “I brought all three of them here, paid their fares, their expenses. Then the one I had to pistol-whip betrayed me. I put her in charge, gave her some respect. Damned if she’s not carrying a baby by the man who’s been causing most of the trouble here.”
“Trouble?” Ash asked, “What kind of trouble?”
“He’s a local cowhand who went off and got himself a reputation as a gunman,” said Lematte. “I wanted to get him on my side…but it hasn’t worked out. Everything just seems to go wrong between us. I don’t know why.”
“A reputation, huh?” said Ash, already getting an idea who Lematte was talking about, but not wanting to be the one to bring it up. “What’s his name?”
“His name is Crayton Dawson,” said Lematte. He watched Ash’s eyes for a response. “I suppose you’ve heard of him?
“Yes, I have,” said Ash, his expression unchanging. “He took a bullet in the gut that was meant for me.”
“He did?” Lematte was taken aback. “Then—Then you two are friends?”
“Not that I know of,” said Ash.
Lematte stammered, “But you said—”
“I know what I said.” Ash stared away, along the other side of the street, seeing two more of Lematte’s deputies walking along the boardwalk. “He might have saved my life…but I can’t say he did for certain.” He seemed to consider it. “And if he did, I didn’t ask him to.” He chuckled under his breath. “And if he did, it weren’t all that big of a deal. I always figure if a man doesn’t die in one place, he’ll just die in another.”
Lematte tried to look into his eyes and gauge his sincerity, but Ash looked away, avoiding his stare. “Then it’s not going to be a problem for you to kill him, when the time comes?” Lematte asked.
“Is it going to be a problem you paying me for doing it, when the time comes?” Ash asked in reply.
“None at all,” said Lematte, feeling better.
“Then we’re both walking on the same side of the line,” said Ash, turning back to face him with a level gaze. “Dawson is a gunman himself…he better realize by now that this ain’t the kind of business to be in owing favors.”
“We’re going to get along fine, Ash,” said Lematte, allowing himself a grin.
“I knew we would, once you got to know me,” said Ash.
Lematte nodded toward the Silver Seven Saloon, where two councilmen hurried along the boardwalk away from the bat-wing doors. “Look at those two,” he said sidelong to Ash. “They can’t wait to start spreading it all over town about more ‘trouble at the Silver Seven.’ Before it’s over I bet I have to bullwhip both of them.”
“Relax, Sheriff,” said Ash, “I’m on the job now.” They both turned and walked into the restaurant as the two councilmen hurried on to the drover’s hotel.
Inside the hotel, Councilman Deavers hurried to a window and looked out nervously toward the spot where Lematte and Mad Albert Ash had been standing. “Do you think they saw us?” he said to Councilman Tinsdale.
“I’m certain they saw us,” Tinsdale replied, “but I don’t think it matters to Lematte right now. He thinks we can’t do anything to stop him.”
“You’re right,” said Deavers, letting go of a tense breath, turning from the window in time to see Gains Bouchard and his men walking down the stairs to the lobby.
“Morning, Councilmen,” said Bouchard, seeming to be in a hurry. “What was all the shooting about?”
“Mister Bouchard! We’re certainly glad to see you,” said Deavers. “All hell has broken loose at the Silver Seven! One girl is dead and another beaten senseless! It was all Lematte’s doings!”
Bouchard slowed to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. “He didn’t kill Dawson’s gal, Suzzette, did he?”
“Suzzette is Dawson’s gal?” Deavers asked, looking astounded.
“No,” Tinsdale cut in, “he killed that dark gal, Miami. But Suzzette took a beating, trying to stop him is my guess.”
“Then Lematte has more trouble coming than he’ll be able to handle is my guess,” said Bouchard. “But right now, gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse us. I’ve got a man missing. He took off last night, drunk and on his own. He didn’t show up come daybrea
k…so something is wrong.”
“Mister Bouchard, you’re going to have to help us!” Deavers pleaded. “We have no other way to turn!”
From the middle of the street came the sound of a pistol shot, followed by Jimmie Turner’s blurry voice yelling in rage toward the restaurant. “Lematte! You dirty whore-whipping son of a bitch! I seen you go in there! Come out here and face a man for a change!”
“That’s Turner!” said Sandy Edelman.
Gains Bouchard stepped quickly out the door of the hotel and into the muddy street, Edelman, Stanley Grubs, and Mike Cassidy right behind him. In the lobby of the hotel Tinsdale and Deavers stood peeping out through the curtains.
“There he is,” Bouchard said in a lowered voice, nodding toward Turner. Jimmie Turner stood in the middle of the muddy street facing the restaurant as Sheriff Lematte and Mad Albert Ash stepped out onto the boardwalk. Lematte calmly stuck a fresh cigar into his mouth and took out a match to light it.
“You don’t have time for a smoke!” Turner raged, shoving his smoking pistol into his holster. “I’m sending you to hell where you belong!”
“Take it easy, cowboy,” said Lematte, striking the match with his thumbnail. “Who do you think you are, coming here firing your gun at this time of morning? Decent folks are still having breakfast.” He offered a short, tight laugh. “We were having breakfast!”
“Come on down in the street, Lematte! I’m going to shoot you to pieces!” Turner said to Mad Albert Ash, not knowing who he was speaking to, “You step away, Mister. I ain’t here to kill you!”
“Gracias,” said Ash with a thin flat smile. “But my breakfast is getting cold. You best hurry this up. I hate cold eggs.”
Lematte puffed the cigar to life while Ash took a step sideways, putting some space between them. Ash’s attention went from Turner, to Gains Bouchard and the other three men spreading out as they walked across the street.
Blowing a stream of smoke, Lematte said to Turner, “You’ve already earned a couple of days in jail for disturbing the peace if I want to push it.” He also lifted a glance toward the drovers crossing the street. From the doors of the Silver Saloon he saw his deputies stepping down into the muddy street and spreading out as well. “But you and the Double D boys have been good customers and model citizens up to now. So I’m going to overlook this. You turn yourself around right now, go sleep it off somewhere.”
“Step down here, Lematte!” said Turner. “Else I’ll have to kill you where you stand!” He staggered forward a step. Gains Bouchard and the drovers quickened their pace.
“Be ready for anything, men,” Bouchard whispered, seeing the deputies coming from the other direction.
“You’re covered, Boss,” said Sandy Edelman.
“Turner!” Bouchard called out. “Go get your horse and let’s get going, right now!” As Turner turned, half facing him, Bouchard called out to Lematte, “Sheriff, you see the shape he’s in. Pay him no mind. I’ll get him out of town.”
“You do that, Bouchard,” said Lematte, “and don’t forget that I did this favor for you the next time you hear somebody bellyaching about me behind my back.” He cut a glance to the hotel window where the two councilmen stood peeping out like frightened children. Then he looked back at Bouchard.
“People tell me lots of things, Lematte,” said Bouchard. “That doesn’t mean I act on it.” He came to a halt a few feet from Jimmie Turner. The other drovers spread in a half circle on his right. On Bouchard’s left he saw the deputies form a matching half circle.
Lematte nodded. “I understand. Take your man and straighten him out.” He grinned. “No harm done.”
“Come on, Turner,” said Gains Bouchard, “I ain’t telling you again!”
“Boss, damn it!” said Jimmie Turner. “You don’t know what he’s done to those women!’
“Yes, I do know,” Bouchard said firmly. “Now come on, let the law deal with Lematte when the time comes.”
“But damn it to hell, Boss! He is the law!” Turner shrieked. “What kind of men are we, letting him treat these poor women that way?”
With a wide, sarcastic grin Hogo Metacino cut in, his hand resting on his pistol butt, “Yeah, Bouchard, what kind of men are you anyway?”
“Shut up, Hogo!” Lematte shouted. He turned to Bouchard and said quickly, “Take him and go! You see what kind of pot we’ve got boiling here.”
“Come on, Turner,” Mike Cassidy called out, staring hard and cold at Hogo Metacino. “Let these deputies crawl back under their rocks.”
“That’s enough, Cassidy!” said Bouchard, half turning toward him. “Lematte is right, we’ve got a bad situ—”
Bouchard’s words stopped short at the sound of a pistol shot exploding. A stunned silence froze everybody in place. Everyone except Jimmie Turner. He staggered backward a step and spun, facing Gains Bouchard. A gout of blood streamed from the center of his chest. Blood spilled from his lips as he said, “Now look what they’ve gone and done to me…” Then he fell forward, splashing facedown in a puddle of mud.
“On the boardwalk Mad Albert Ash stood with his pistol smoking and a strange grin on his face. “I guess that settles that,” he said. “Now can we get back to our breakfast?”
“You murdering bastard!” Gains Bouchard shouted, spitting out his wad of chewing tobacco as his hand streaked to his holster and started back up, cocking his Colt on the upswing. The street seemed to spring back to life all at once. Seeing the deputies respond to Bouchard’s move by reaching for their guns, Sandy Edelman and the Double D men made their own move to protect the old rancher. Within a split second eleven pistols blazed back and forth with less than fifteen feet between the two warring groups.
Mad Albert Ash’s shot slammed into Gains Bouchard’s chest, sending him backward into the mud as a terrified horse yanked its reins loose from the hitch rail and found itself rearing high amid the fracas. But Bouchard wasn’t done for. He came up onto one knee, his left hand gripping the flow of blood from his chest. With the rearing horse between him and Ash, Bouchard saw the deputies firing on his men. He saw Sandy Edelman go down in a spray of blood, two bullets hitting him at once. Instinctively Bouchard swung his Colt toward them and emptied all six shots into the gunmen.
Lematte took a long dive along the boardwalk and found cover behind a stack of shipping crates out front of the harness shop.
Mike Cassidy took a bullet in his upper left shoulder but kept firing, one shot hitting Rowland Lenz squarely in the forehead and turning him in a backward flip. Another shot sent Hogo Metacino sprawling into the mud, although the bullet only grazed the side of his head. His gun slipped from his hand and sank in the mud. He crawled frantically, reaching for it, only to have it squirt from his grasp as a bullet whistled above his head.
“Look out, Stanley!” Mike Cassidy shouted, seeing Delbert Collins taking an aim at him. But Stanley Grubs didn’t act quick enough. Collins’s bullet sliced through his heart and left him lying dead in the mud.
“Kill him, Delbert!” shouted Hogo Metacino from the mud, still trying to get a grip on his slippery pistol.
Delbert Collins and Mike Cassidy fired at the same time at one another. Cassidy’s bullet sent Collins writhing in pain with both hands clutching his crotch. Collins’s shot sliced through the center of Cassidy’s right ear, leaving the lower half of it hanging limply. Cassidy clasped a hand to the bloody ear and turned toward Mad Albert Ash, seeing the frightened horse run out from between Ash and Gains Bouchard.
“Get down, Boss!” Cassidy shouted, seeing that Bouchard had gone down again, but that he was struggling back up to his knee, raising his Colt toward Mad Albert with all his effort.
“Whooie!” said Ash, grinning wildly. “What a shootout this is!”
Bouchard pulled the trigger on his Colt before realizing he’d used all his shots. As he fumbled for bullets from his mud-covered gun belt, Ash calmly looked at Mike Cassidy and put a bullet in his chest. As Cassidy hit the ground, Ash walked slowl
y toward Gains Bouchard, taking his time, still grinning. He stopped two feet from Bouchard and held his gun pointed down at his face. Bouchard stared up the long gun barrel. Knowing that it was all over for him, he let the bullets spill from his muddy hand.
“Now tell the truth, old man,” said Mad Albert Ash. “Was all this worth one lousy cowhand?”
“Damn you, sir!” said Gains Bouchard, remaining defiant to the end.
“And you as well,” said Ash. He pulled the trigger and Bouchard’s head snapped back violently, a blast of blood and brain matter raising a splatter of mud in the street.
Lematte came down from his hiding spot and cocked his head sideways quizzically, looking down at Bouchard’s dead, blank expression. “I’m going to miss his business,” he said with regret.
Chapter 16
From an outhouse behind the Silver Seven Saloon, Karl Nolly had come splashing through the mud with his holster belt over his shoulder at the first sound of gunfire. But he slowed to a halt a few feet back from where the bodies of both deputies and cowhands alike lay spilling blood. “Good God!” he said, one hand holding his Colt, his other hand holding his unfastened trousers gathered at his waist. He watched Hogo Metacino struggle to his feet like some creature rising from the bowels of the earth.
“Lower that pistol and attend to yourself, Deputy,” said Mad Albert Ash, standing over Gains Bouchard’s body as he reloaded his Colt. “You’re too late to be any help here.”
Nolly stared at him, seething, but he lowered the pistol and began fastening his trousers. “How the hell did all this happen?” he asked of anyone there.
“If you had been here,” Ash said flatly, “we wouldn’t have to tell you. Ain’t that right, Sheriff?” he asked Lematte.
“Yes, that’s right,” Lematte agreed. He had stepped down from the boardwalk and stood beside Ash. “Since you missed the party, you can stay for the cleanup.” He pointed down at Bouchard’s body, saying, “Drag him away from here. It looks bad, bodies laying around.”