by Ralph Cotton
Mackenzie glanced at Harper and Thorpe standing among the animals. Catching the exchange among the men, Frazier said, “Feel free to lead the horses along and hitch them out front of the Blue Belle. I’m sure we can make room for them. I can have one of the boys from the livery barn come get them if you prefer.”
“Huh-uh,” Mackenzie said firmly, “we’re keeping the horses with us.”
Brewer offered in a quiet tone, “Mac, we could send all these spare horses to the livery. It would give us less to have to fool with.” The expression on his face told Mackenzie that it might be a good idea to get the stage horses off the street. “Out of sight, out of mind . . . ?” Brewer added.
Mackenzie nodded. “Good thinking,” he whispered.
Outside town, Stanton “Buckshot” Parks slid his tired horse to a halt and reined it back and forth as he squinted and watched the four drovers and the man in the swallow-tailed coat walk along the boardwalk toward the Blue Belle Saloon. “Frazier, you greasy-thumbed son of a rattler,” he growled to himself. “Touch one dollar of my money and I will open the top of your head and stir my fingers around in your brains!”
But he settled down as he watched the young drovers follow Frazier into the saloon. “Who do I know in this one-horse miserable gnat’s ass of a town?” he asked himself.
Keeping the worn-out horse running back and forth in a frenzy, the shotgun he’d taken from the site of the stage coach robbery in hand, he finally stopped abruptly as a name and face came to mind. “Hell yes, that’s my man!” he said aloud. Then he smacked the shotgun barrel on the horse’s rump and rode away, wide of the town’s streets and off along a littered alleyway behind a long row of buildings.
PART 2
Chapter 9
Former deputy Fred Mandrin awakened to the sound of a rocking chair creaking slowly back and forth on the bare wooden floor. Before he opened his eyes, he slipped his hand beneath his pillow and felt around for the butt of his big Remington pistol. When he noted that the gun wasn’t there, he froze for a moment trying to remember where he might have put it, knowing that any second he might be called upon to use it. He’d been drinking hard the night before; he recalled that much. . . .
“Looking for this, Fearless Fred?” said Stanton Parks, cocking the Remington, holding the tip of the barrel only a few inches from Mandrin’s face.
Mandrin opened his bloodshot eyes and blinked a couple of times to get rid of the cobwebs and get a focus on Parks. “Nobody calls me Fearless,” he said in a gravelly, testy voice, “leastwise, not to my face. Not if they don’t want to die bloody.” He raised himself onto an elbow and raked his hair back from his eyes.
“You’re awfully prickly for a man staring down the barrel of his own gun,” said Parks.
“A man staring down his own gun barrel might as well be prickly,” Mandrin said. He looked around at the nightstand for the bottle of rye he’d placed there the night before, saving it as an eye-opener. “Did you drink my whiskey?” he asked, his face becoming grim at the prospect of having nothing to drink.
“No,” said Parks, “you must have lost it wallowing in the dirt last night, like a pig.”
Mandrin gave him a curious look. “Were you here last night?”
Parks gave a slight dark chuckle. He reached behind his back, produced Mandrin’s corked bottle of whiskey and pitched it over onto the bed beside him. “I’m only funning you, Fred.”
“You’re a real funny man,” Mandrin said in a stiff, dry tone. He picked up the bottle, pulled the cork and drained the two inches of rye with one deep swallow. Then he let out a whiskey hiss and tossed the bottle aside. “Unless you’re going to shoot me, point that smoker another direction,” he said, reaching out and shoving the barrel of the Remington away from his face. “I’m shaking so bad I might cause it to go off.”
Parks chuckled again, but he eased the hammer down on the big Remington and laid it on the nightstand.
Mandrin felt the whiskey go right to work, soothing him, filling in all of the raw jittery holes it had left in him overnight. “What brings you up this way, Buckshot?” he asked with a more steady voice.
Parks shrugged. “I’m on the run, sort of,” he said as if uncertain of himself.
“Yeah?” Mandrin stared at him through his puffy bloodshot eyes. “I don’t know as I’ve ever heard of a man sort of on the run. Most will tell you flat out, they either are, or they ain’t.”
“Are you still toting that badge Delbert Jamison hung on you?”
“No,” said Mandrin, “the town made me take it off. Said I drank too much. Said I’d get it back if I ever sobered up enough to pin it on without stabbing myself to death. The smug sons a’ bitches.” He coughed. “I told them to kiss my ass.” He coughed again, deeper. “Why’d you ask?”
Parks looked disappointed. “That’s too bad. I’ve got some business in the works that would’ve made you rich had you still been wearing a deputy badge.”
“Well, I ain’t wearing one,” said Mandrin, “so close that door behind you.” He reached back, took a wadded-up pillow and adjusted it, ready to lie back down. As an afterthought he took the Remington from the nightstand and slipped it roughly under the pillow.
“We might be able to do some business anyway,” Parks said, giving the matter some thought. “Get up and let’s talk about it.”
Mandrin rose a little, an aggravated look on his face. “Listen, Buckshot, and don’t take this the wrong way. I have never liked you much. I always thought you’d stab your best friend in the back if it would make you a dollar or two.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Parks asked, not the least bit offended. “Do you want to hear what I’ve got afoot here?” He looked all around the weathered, sun-bleached shack. “Or is this about as far as you ever planned on going in life?”
“Don’t make yourself my judge, Buckshot Parks,” said Mandrin. “I ain’t the one sort of on the run here. I turned to upholding the law just to keep from getting hung by it. But badge on or off, I’ve stolen as much as the next man, over my natural time.” He pushed himself up in the bed, swung his feet over onto the dusty plank floor and let out a breath. “I’m just what you could call ‘off my game’ right now.”
“And I’m just the ace who can put you back onto your game. Do you want to hear what I’ve got going on here or not?” Parks asked.
“I might as well, I’m already up,” Mandrin replied.
Parks gave a crafty smile. “I’ve got two words for you, Fred: Davin Grissin.” He stopped as if he need say no more.
Mandrin just stared at him. After a dull pause, he said, “So?”
Parks shook his head slightly. “There’s four cowhands in Red Hill who stole a bunch of Grissin’s money from a stagecoach that I robbed. I was going to offer you a fourth of that money if you still wore your deputy badge, and for helping me kill them and get me that money back. It’s rightfully mine anyway.”
“Hold on,” said Mandrin. “They stole money from a stagecoach that you robbed?” He wrinkled his brow trying to understand it.
“I’ll fill you in on everything,” said Parks. “The question is, are you in, or not?”
“A fourth?” Mandrin eyed him again.
“That was when I thought you still had your deputy badge,” said Parks. “I figured you could pin it on and buffalo them a little. These boys are not outlaws. They’ll do what the law tells them to do.”
“I said I don’t have my deputy badge,” said Mandrin. “But I’ve got a sheriff badge I stole out of a desk once whilst I was delivering a prisoner to Yuma to be hanged.”
“Well, hell, that’s even better,” said Parks. “Let me take a look at it.”
“In good time,” said Mandrin, not trusting Parks with such a rare treasure. “All we’ve got to do is kill these four cowhands, take the money and ride away?”
“Yep, that’s it, more or less,” said Parks, “if you can pose as a lawman when we catch up to them.”
�
�I can do that easily—I’ve got enough practice at it.” Mandrin stood up. “Let’s go kill them and get done with it.”
Parks stood up and said, “We’re going to have to lure them out of town first.”
“Why?” Mandrin asked. “There’s nobody here to stop us. We can do as we damn well please.”
Parks grinned “I like your way of thinking, but we want to do this in a way that neither the law nor Grissin and his men ever suspect us of anything. After acquiring this much money, I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, do you?”
Considering it for a moment, Mandrin said, “No, I don’t.” He rubbed a hand across his dry lips. “Let’s go get a bottle and you tell me everything I need to know about this deal.”
“Now you’re talking, Mandrin,” said Parks, “or should I say, Sheriff Mandrin?”
As soon as a boy had been summoned from the livery barn and the spare horses taken away, the drovers moved their own mounts to the hitch rail out in front of the Blue Belle Saloon. Tad Harper had volunteered to stay with the animals while the other three accompanied Bart Frazier to his office in the rear of the barroom.
Frazier sat listening closely to everything Jet Mackenzie told him, about the stagecoach, the dead robbers and coachmen, the unopened strongbox and the bag of money belonging to Davin Grissin. The only thing Mackenzie didn’t tell him was that the money was out front, divided and hidden among each of the drovers’ personal affects.
“Just where is all of this money?” Frazier made a point in asking, showing great concern. “Somewhere safe, I hope?”
“Very safe,” is all Mackenzie replied in a tight-lipped voice. Then he went on with the story, mentioning how they had gotten a raw deal from Grissin and were afraid that this fact alone might cast suspicion on them.
“Yes, I see how one might think that,” Frazier said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
When the young drover finished, Frazier picked up the half-full bottle of whiskey standing on his desk, poured himself a shot, tossed it back and sighed. He looked studiously at Brewer, then at Thorpe, then back to Mackenzie.
“It’s most fortunate for you young men that you came to me,” he said. He pointed at Mackenzie and told the other two, “Your ramrod here has a head on his shoulders. I always admire a man who can think on his feet.”
Mackenzie stared at him. He didn’t need to be told what a good job he was doing. He only wanted to get things straightened out. “Obliged, Mr. Frazier,” he said humbly. “Do you think you can help us out? All we want to do is get this money to the stage line and get shed of it. We don’t want to get blamed for something we didn’t do.”
“Certainly I can help you out,” Frazier said with confidence. “Put your minds at ease.” He gave an even pearly white smile. “Can you do that for me, while I go send a wire to some of ‘the right people’ I know in Flagstaff?”
“We can sure try,” said Mackenzie, making an effort to return Frazier’s smile.
“Very good,” Frazier said. “I’ll bring you back their reply, so you can read it for yourself.” He reached out with the bottle and filled the empty shot glass sitting in front of Mackenzie. Then he filled Brewer’s and Thorpe’s shot glasses as they held them out toward him. “Of course I have to say, it would be much easier to declare your innocence if I could tell ‘the right people’ that I have the money sitting safely in front of me.”
“Don’t worry,” said Mackenzie, “as soon as we know that your folks believe us and will get us off the hook, we’ll put the money at your feet.”
Frazier considered the matter. “Well, I certainly can’t ask for better than that, now, can I?”
“No, you can’t,” Jock Brewer replied.
“Well, then,” Frazier said, appearing undisturbed by the reply, “please make yourselves at home, gentlemen, while I get a wire off to Flagstaff.” He turned, walked out and shut the door behind himself.
After a moment of tense silence, the three listening to the sound of Frazier’s footsteps walking away across the plank floor, Brewer and Thorpe stepped closer to Mackenzie. “Do you trust this man?” Brewer asked.
“Yeah,” Mackenzie said quietly, “but only because I don’t see that we’ve got much choice.”
The three remained quiet for a long moment, the only sound in the room that of a tall pendulum clock. Mackenzie finished his glass of whiskey. Brewer did the same. Then he glanced at the clock, poured himself another glassful and sipped it.
“I think he’s a slick, grinning rattlesnake,” Holly Thorpe finally said in a whisper, eyeing the closed door as if Frazier might be standing on the other side, listening all this time. “I think we’d best get out of here while the getting’s good.” He looked to Brewer for support.
“As soon as your grinning rattlesnake shows us a reply from Flagstaff, we are getting out of here,” said Mackenzie. “We’re not going to trust him any longer than we have to.” He looked all around. “But, pards, we’ve got to get this money off our backs. Once Grissin hears about this, I’ve got a feeling he’s not going to listen to anything we’ve got to say on the matter.”
Brewer said to Thorpe, “I’m sticking with Mac on this. He’s still our ramrod. He’s never steered us wrong yet, has he?”
Thorpe settled. “Sorry, Mac. I just get a bad belly listening to the man talk.” He fidgeted with his wire-rims and pushed them up on the bridge of his nose.
“Take it easy, Holly,” Mackenzie said firmly, the ramrod giving his trail hand an order as if the two were seated atop their horses alongside a moving herd of longhorns. “A few minutes, it’ll all be over.”
Thorpe only nodded. “You’re the boss, Mac.”
Something had been gnawing at Mackenzie ever since Frazier had told them he knew the right people in Flagstaff. There was something he had noticed riding into Red Hill, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. What is it? he asked himself, sipping his whiskey, looking across the room and out the window. Finally, he stood up, set the shot glass down, walked over and leaned both hands on the window-sill. Behind him, Brewer and Thorpe only gave each other a puzzled look and remained silent.
Through the dusty wavy windowpanes, Mackenzie gazed back and forth along the dirt street. He caught a glimpse of Frazier’s swallow-tailed coat hurring into an alleyway; he saw two men with rifles hurry in behind him. Then he searched back and forth again, this time up along the rooflines, until suddenly he stopped and stood as if frozen for a second.
“Mac, what is it? What’s going on?” Brewer asked, seeing a change come over the young trail boss.
Mackenzie didn’t answer. Instead he turned from the window, walked past the desk and swiped his hat up and shoved it atop his head. “Let’s go, pards. He’s jackpotting us.”
“Who’s jackpotting us, Mac?” said Thorpe. He noted the pale, drawn look on Mackenzie’s face as he and Brewer fell in behind him and started toward the door. “What do you mean, he’s jackpotted us?”
“Yeah, boss,” said Brewer, squeezing through the office door right beside Mackenzie, “jackpotting us how? What did you see out there?”
“Nothing,” Mackenzie said in a clipped tone as he walked on toward the batwing doors leading out to the street.
“Nothing?” said Brewer. “It sure don’t appear that you seen nothing, the way you’re—”
“I saw nothing,” said Mackenzie. He lifted his Colt from his holster as he walked, checking it and keeping it in his hand. “I looked from one end of this town to the other. There’s not a telegraph pole in sight.”
“That grinning rattlesnake,” said Thorpe.
“Stay close ’til we hit the street and get Tadpole covered, then spread out and get ready for a fight. But don’t shoot until I tell you to. Both of you got that?”
“Got it, boss,” said Brewer, his Colt already up, checked and cocked.
“Thorpe?” said Mackenzie, pushing his way through the batwing doors.
“Right behind you, boss,” said
Thorpe, his right hand levering a round up into his rifle chamber.
Chapter 10
Out in front of the Blue Belle Saloon, Tad Harper had already caught sight of Bart Frazier and three riflemen step out of the alleyway and start walking in his direction. Along the dirt street, buggies and wagons hurried away as if in premonition of a coming gun battle. On the boardwalks people ducked into doorways. Atop the roofline to his right, Harper saw the glint of gunmetal in the harsh sunlight.
Easing away from the hitch rail, he started toward the batwing doors to warn the others. But before he’d made it halfway there, the three barged out. “Mac!” Harper said. “There’s gunmen everywhere!”
“We saw them, Tadpole. Good work,” said Mackenzie, staring past Harper toward Bart Frazier. Two of the three riflemen flanked the saloon owner. The third had drifted off to the side, covering the entrance to a narrow street leading out of town.
In the middle of the dirt street, Bart Frazier said to the gunman nearest him, “Damn it, they caught on to me too soon! If we’d surprised them in my office, there wouldn’t have been a shot fired.”
“But that ain’t how it worked out, Frazier,” said one of the riflemen.
Frazier stopped suddenly, raised his voice and called out loud enough for the whole town to hear, “Those four drovers robbed the Albertson stage. They killed the driver, the guard and three passengers! One of them was Colonel Tanner, a man this territory held in the highest esteem—”
Mackenzie cut him off with a raised voice. “You’re a liar, Frazier, you grinning rattlesnake! Don’t listen to him, folks,” he called out to faces peeping from behind closed doors and windows. “We come here to tell the law about the robbery—”
Now Frazier cut him off. “I am the law when it comes to dealing with bandits and far-handed rogues like you,” he shouted for the townsfolk to hear. “If you’re truly innocent, throw down your guns. The whole town is backing me up on this. Am I right, folks?” He looked back and forth along the street.