by Abe Dancer
‘Uh-huh,’ Linus said carefully as Cole paused.
‘Day before yesterday I saw a feller come out of your bank. Not by the street door, though he went in that way. He left by the side door that opens directly from your office.’
Linus looked pale now, his face taut. The smile he forced didn’t work, but he didn’t speak.
‘Big feller with a beard, wide shoulders, cannonball head, dressed well enough but wearing his gun low and tied down. That’s what got my interest, so I looked a little more closely. Know the man I’m talking about?’
Linus shook his head, ran a tongue around his lips. He seemed to have forgotten the burning cigar and a long, sagging cylinder of ash dropped down the front of his waistcoat, but he didn’t notice.
‘He wouldn’t’ve come out of my office. There’s a short, narrow passage leads down from our file storage. It connects with the foyer one end, and behind a partition, to that side door at the other.’
‘Doesn’t sound like a good arrangement for keeping your bank secure, not if anyone can use it. But how would the feller I’m talking about know about it? This is the first time I’ve heard of it.’
Linus shrugged. ‘It’s no real secret, but it’s hidden mostly by a couple of large potted plants. He may’ve just been poking around and noticed it. What’re you getting at, anyway, Cole?’ He tried to harden his voice but he was not successful.
‘I know that man, Linus. He comes from Banjo Springs. He’s called ‘Quick’ Quinlan. Dunno whether it refers to his claim to be half-brother to a bolt of lightning with a gun, or how ready he is to use his fists and boots. He enjoys crippling people.’ He watched the tension taking hold of the banker, lowered his gaze to the bandaged hand, adding, ‘He’s Brack Devlin’s troubleshooter.’
‘Devlin? The man who runs the big gambling hall down in the Springs. Calls it a “casino”?’
‘You know who I mean. Devlin’s tough. They say he’s got connections to a gambling syndicate on the East Coast.’
‘I’ve heard that, too, but … I still don’t know what you’re getting at.’
‘Linus, if you’re in any kinda trouble, and Quinlan’s part of it, you better tell me about it now.’
Charlton snorted, smiling crookedly. ‘Trouble? Me? With people like that? What would I be doing dealing with Brack Devlin or—’
‘Only way you’ll deal with Devlin is through Quinlan – and I saw him leaving your office two days ago. And now you show up with busted fingers. One of Quinlan’s little “demonstrations”? A kind of preview of what could happen?’
‘I just told you, that door can be reached by—’ The banker sounded annoyed and Cole broke in rudely.
‘Know what you told me, Linus. Maybe it’s so, maybe not. But Quinlan wouldn’t traipse all the way up here to do business with your bank when Devlin already has his own set-up in Banjo Springs. If he came to see you, it was on behalf of Devlin.’
‘Look, you’re way off, Cole! I don’t know what you’re implying, exactly, but I have no dealings with this Quinlan, and certainly not with Brack Devlin! It would be more than my job’s worth to get involved with a crook, and a gambler at that!’
Cole levelled his gaze at the banker and Linus couldn’t hold the stare, dropped his eyes, involuntarily rubbing his bandaged hand lightly. He straightened his shoulders. ‘I have to be going, Cole. I’ll be obliged if you’ll keep an eye on young Donny on the Fourth and—’
‘Already said I would. Linus, before you go … I consider you a friend and if you have any problems, I’ll be glad to help out.’ He lifted a hand as the banker started to protest. ‘I know Quinlan, and I’ve seen his work. I spent six months working for Careful Carmody on his freight line. Won’t go into details but we made a run to Banjo and through no fault of his own, Carmody ran into trouble with Devlin. Devlin turned Quinlan loose. Carmody’s retired now, still uses crutches. Me and the other freighters didn’t fare too well, neither. I can give you the full story if you like, but take it from me, Linus, don’t tangle with Quinlan. Bring me into it and I’ll help you all I can.’
The banker began to bluster, working at it.
‘I’ve had enough of this! Who d’you think you are, accusing me of dealing with the likes of Brack Devlin? I’ve tried to tell you—’
‘Linus! Quinlan’s the one to look out for. OK, he comes to see you, has a chat, mebbe over a cigar and whiskey, fairly pleasant …’ He glanced pointedly at the injured hand. ‘Fairly. But you’ve been warned now, just a hint of what might come your way. Wait, damnit! Let me finish. Next time won’t be anywhere near so pleasant – there’ll be a lot more than finger bones being cracked.’
Charlton was breathing hard now, his face deeply flushed, nostrils flaring, thick chest heaving. There was a lot of fear there but he was trying to cover it with anger.
‘Damn you, Cole! Mind your own business! Now, that’s all I have to say. Good-day!’
Cole watched him stride away angrily along the veranda, felt sudden aching pain in his hip and sat down again, using both hands to lift his leg back onto the rest.
He hoped he was wrong about Linus, but he knew he wasn’t; the banker had somehow run foul of Devlin and his fixer had Linus in his sights.
He had been seriously thinking of moving on after the Seventh, but now … He’d already said it: he considerd the banker a friend and a man doesn’t walk away from a friend in trouble.
The Fourth of July started with a bang – literally. Some farm boys, in for the celebrations, having to bring their wives to town early so they could help cook the goodies for breakfast and other meals, also brought in a good supply of moonshine. And gunpowder, in newspaper-wrapped packages in floursack carry bags slung across their chests and shoulders.
It was traditional that the law turned a blind eye to illicit stills at this time of year. In any case, sampling their neighbours’ efforts meant passing several different stone jugs of the elixir from hand to hand. By the time a man had sipped all of the various brews, his tastebuds were numbed – and so was much of his brain.
No one was certain afterwards who first suggested they unlimber the Civil War cannon outside the council hall. The idea was to load it and salute The Flag, flapping desultorily at the top of the white-painted mast on the small lawn, with pyramids of cannonballs each side of the gun.
The moonshine was taking effect by the time a merry group ran the cannon out of its footings and into the small town square, deserted at this time; most of the activities were out at the barbecue pits and the fires of the designated cooking area, or in setting up tables at the old swimming hole.
Stumbling, staggering into one another, each man insisted on pouring some of his very own ‘special’ mix of gunpowder into the barrel. Their minds were too fuddled to keep count, and just in case there had been a short-count, they tossed in a few extra measures. Then they lit the fuse from a burning cigar and ran for cover.
Just as well they did.
The cannon exploded, hurling the breech and a portion of the barrel down a side street and clear over the roof of the double-storeyed Delta saloon. Pieces of shattered iron peppered and clattered against stores and houses; glass tinkled, wood splintered, frightened horses at hitch racks in connecting streets shied and whinnied, dogs ran whining for cover, cats raced, meowing in terror, up tall trees.
Irate citizens swarmed into the smoke-choked square – in Cole’s case, limped in – but no one was to be seen. Only the shattered cannon and the broken gun-carriage. The flag pole was leaning at a new and potentially dangerous angle, too.
A slurring voice, its owner well hidden somewhere not too far away, bawled, ‘Hap-pee Independence Day!’
And a half-dozen voices cut loose with Rebel yells.
That insane, booming blast set the tone for the rest of the day. It would be the noisiest, drunkenest celebration Barberry had ever seen.
There were several fights even before breakfast, but Cole, limping, his leg hurting like hell, let them sort themselves
out. Mostly the combatants were too drunk to stand, let alone land damaging punches.
It was noisy, as was to be expected; fireworks were exploding and hissing and arcing all over the large picnic ground near the bend of the river. Smoke drifted in choking clouds, stung eyes, rasped nostrils. But no one seemed to mind. Everyone was here to have a good time – Hell, it was Independence Day – only happened once a year didn’t it? And a damn good day to celebrate to the full….
Cole knew he had to be lenient, turn a blind eye and not harry folk. Food seemed endless, the long wooden trestle-tables sagged under the weight of a hundred different dishes, prepared by the ladies of Barberry. The fiddlers started fiddling and flutes began trilling their sweet notes – not always playing the same tune. Someone produced an empty coal-oil drum, stole a couple of big ladles from the cooking area and wrapped the bowls in dishcloths. In minutes they had a booming bass drum, also throbbing to its own rhythm, the drummer bleary-eyed, lost in a fuzzy world of his own. But eventually, the musicians – or those posing as such – were prevailed upon to play the same tunes. The centre of the wooden platform was cleared and as the toe-tapping notes of Turkey in the Straw and Buffalo Gals filled the reeking air, the space became crowded with dancers.
There were many stumbles and elaborate, drink-slurred apologies. But when the men realized they were failing to impress their partners, insults were hurled, offence taken swiftly, followed by flying fists.
Most men were already way too drunk to cause injury, but Cole had to move in when a knife was drawn. Limping and gritting his teeth against his pain, he cracked two heads together and dragged the semiconscious men away to sleep it off under some trees.
Trouble was, every time he went to someone’s aid, there was always someone standing by to offer him a drink in appreciation of his efforts.
After a while, refusal not only became boring, but downright dangerous.
‘Hey! This ain’t panther piss, y’ know! I been sweatin’ over a hot still for nigh on two weeks, so don’t you insult me by refusin’ my liquor, Sher’f!’
He escaped a couple of wildly swinging bottles but had consumed a good deal of liquor himself after realizing the raw brew deadened the knifing pain of his wound. Would it do the same for the other pain on the Seventh? He underestimated the powerful effects of the moonshine. It caught up with him suddenly, unexpectedly. Waves of dizziness and queasiness overwhelmed him and he ran staggeringly for the shadows of some trees to rest up a spell. Just a minute or two. Wait. Where was Donny Charlton? He hadn’t seen the boy for a while; last time was down at the swimming hole with a bunch of his friends. He had sent Josh and Joel Miller down that way to keep an occasional eye on the boy. He had better go and check with them and….
Sudden illness ambushed him and Donny Charlton slipped from his mind.
Wiping his mouth, he only now realized that it was quite dark under the trees here, heading towards sundown. Where the hell had the day gone? He leaned against a tree, head swimming. Maybe he’d sit and have a smoke, then go look for the kid and….
The fist came out of nowhere, drove into his kidney area and slammed him face first into the rough bark of the tree. Lights burst and whirled behind his eyes; he had enough sense to know they weren’t Fourth of July firecrackers. Then his legs were kicked out from under him. A boot thudded into his upper chest. A worn heel drove down towards his face. He managed to wrench his head aside just in time, but the heel tore part of his ear. The searing pain sent some sort of sanity through his throbbing brain.
He twisted the foot next time it came swinging in and heaved mightily. Someone yelled, and there were stumbling sounds and curses.
‘Kick his goddamn leg wound! Hurt the son of a bitch, Quick said. Do it!’
That sure didn’t sound like just a couple of overexuberant townsmen! These men were out to hurt him – and badly. He rolled, head spinning, still nauseous, somehow got the tree between himself and his attackers. In the shadows and with his sight blurred from the drink and that initial blow to his kidneys, he could only make out the men as hazy, moving shapes. He twisted violently as a boot drove towards his wounded upper thigh. It missed, but his leg crumpled under him and he fell to one knee. He used his hands to slap away a kick aimed at his face. He up-ended the boot’s owner and staggered to his feet, pressing his back into the tree for support. His throbbing leg threatened to collapse again. The second man swung hard. Cole ducked and the man howled as his fist hit the tree full force. While he sucked his popped and cut knuckles, Cole hooked him in the belly, spread a hand over the dimly outlined face and smashed his head against the tree. The attacker started to crumple, moaning.
The other man had regained his balance and came in with a roar, swinging. All the while firecrackers exploded, rockets soared, strident music as well as Rebel yells all drowned out the sounds of the fight.
Cole’s leg wouldn’t support him any longer. He put out a hand as he started to fall and a knee drove into his face, flinging him back. He struck the tree and sprawled, clawing at the ground, trying to push upright.
But they were onto him now, fists and boots flailing, maiming, grunted words punctuated by the effort behind each blow.
‘Mind your – own – goddamn – business in – future!’
‘An’ – here’s somethin’ – to help you – re – remember!’
There was an abrupt explosion of light. Then he was tumbling into pitch blackness, racked and jarred with thudding pain….
His ears were ringing, his head exploding, filled with noise as if he was standing inside a ringing church bell. And, dimly, through the racket and disorientation, he heard a distant voice:
‘Here he is! Behind this tree. Oh, Jesus, he’s been in a fight. Aaagh! Smell him!’
‘Drunk as a skunk! He’s been hittin’ the moonshine!’
‘Throw some water over him!’
Even through his pain and all the racket, Cole recognized that voice. ‘Li – Linus?’
‘Yes, damn you, it’s me! Where the hell’ve you been? We’ve been looking for you for over an hour …’ He was shaken roughly. ‘Goddamnit, Cole! Don’t you pass out on me again! While you’ve been getting drunk and fighting, young Donny’s gone missing! You were s’posed to be watching out for him. Damnit! Wake up! D’you hear me? I said Donny’s – gone!’
CHAPTER 5
LOST BOY
Cole was ashamed. He could rationalize a lot of things: pain in the leg wound, rotgut literally forced upon him or there would be hostility and so more trouble to watch out for, and a quiet eagerness on his own part to use the moonshine to deaden other pains that waited just below the horizon, a couple of days away. He could use all these things to tell himself it wasn’t his fault: the booze was way too strong, the pain in his leg was intense because he had refused to use a stick at the celebration. But it all came down to one fact: he got drunk and he was derelict in his duty.
Donny Charlton was missing and no one knew for just how long. Someone looked around for him late in the afternoon and he just wasn’t there, nor anywhere to be found.
All the men, including a distraught and very angry Linus Charlton, were searching the brush and the swimming hole; Donny was a good swimmer, but there were dead trees and other potential snags awaiting the unwary beneath the surface.
Bess was being comforted by the other women and the Independence Day celebrations had now come to an abrupt halt. No fireworks criss-crossed the night sky, no fiddles or Jews’ harps filled the balmy air with blood-pounding tunes and much of the uneaten food was spoiled. The coffee pots were continually refilled, though, as weary, unsuccessful searchers staggered in looking for something warm and stimulating.
Cole himself had dunked his head in the swimming hole several times, wanting to change his smelly clothes, but reluctant to leave the scene. He was already the target of many hostile and silently accusing stares.
The Miller boys, Josh and Joel, had done their duty well enough; they had checked on Donny’
s whereabouts frequently, and there had been nothing untoward. Once his playmate, young Sam Bale, got into trouble in the swimming hole and Donny had helped him ashore. Sam had actually fallen in, his clothes got wet and he became cold. Donny, in a rare gesture of generosity, gave him his jacket to keep him warm.
‘Donny wasn’t makin’ no trouble,’ Josh Miller told Cole and the tight-lipped banker. ‘Playin’ with his friends. Aw, they got a bit cheeky a few times, played pranks, but someone usually stopped things before they got outta hand.’
He looked at his brother for confirmation and Joel nodded. ‘They was mostly swimmin’, it bein’ such a hot day.’ He broke off and his gaze was shifty as he glanced at Linus and looked away hurriedly. ‘I reckon – sorry, Banker, but seems logical to me – that if we can’t find Donny anywheres around the picnic grounds then….’ He jerked his head towards the river.
‘No!’ snapped Charlton, his well-fed lower jaw trembling. ‘No, Donny was a good swimmer! He hasn’t drowned!’
‘Maybe we better drag the hole, Linus,’ Cole said quietly. ‘Seems Joel might have something.’
Linus glared at the contrite sheriff. ‘I doubt that anyone here will take much notice of your opinions after today, Sheriff! I suggest you go home and change those filthy clothes and sleep it off! You aren’t much use to anyone right now.’
That hurt Cole but he tried to keep a straight face. ‘I can stand my stink a little longer.’ He turned to the Millers. ‘You boys go organize a dragline….’
Charlton grabbed Cole’s shoulder and spun him hard enough to make him stagger; pain shot through his leg and he slapped the banker’s hand away. It must have hurt because Linus winced and snatched his arm back to his chest, nursing it with his bandaged left hand.
‘I’m still sheriff, Linus. Maybe I won’t be tomorrow, but for tonight I’m still wearing the badge and I don’t have time to waste on stupid arguments. I know I’ve behaved badly but that won’t help us find Donny. Now, you Millers go do what I told you.’