Moonshine Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, I reckon you will,” Coleman said firmly. “You’ll be held accountable for your actions just like any other citizen would be, Marshal.”

  Sam said, “I think we should stay while the doctor takes a look at those prisoners, just to make sure nothing else happens.”

  Coleman shook his head. “No, I think it’ll be all right. Pouch that iron, Sam, and come with me.”

  Sam hesitated. He didn’t trust Porter or the other special deputies. On the other hand, it was doubtful that they would try anything with the doctor around.

  “A good lawman knows that he’s got to choose his battles, Sam,” Coleman said quietly.

  Sam blew out a breath and nodded. He slid the Colt into leather and moved away from the wagon. Porter continued to glare murderously at him. Sam didn’t turn his back on the man until he and Coleman were well away from the wagons.

  Then he said in an undertone, “You don’t know the whole story yet, Marshal. You don’t know what that prisoner was saying.”

  “I know that we came damned close to having a really messy situation back there,” Coleman said.

  “The prisoner claimed that Porter was going to murder all of them.”

  Coleman glanced over sharply at him. “You sure about that? He said murder?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Well…that don’t hardly seem likely.” Coleman rubbed his jaw in thought. “Porter and those other hombres are lawmen, after all.”

  “They’re more like regulators. Hired killers. Matt and I saw them blow up a cabin with a bomb yesterday, and they came mighty close to blowing up the men inside it, too. And it’s a long way to Wichita. Who knows what might happen between here and there, once they start in with the prisoners?”

  Coleman shook his head stubbornly. “Nope, I just don’t believe it. Those boys in the wagons are facin’ prison terms, Sam. Of course they’ll say anything to try to get out of them. You can’t put too much stock in any claims they make.”

  Coleman had a point there, Sam supposed. The prisoners were outlaws, at least in the eyes of the state of Kansas. And outlaws, generally, couldn’t be trusted.

  There had been something in that man’s voice as he called from inside the wagon, though. Something that Sam had heard often enough to recognize.

  Fear.

  No, it was more than that, he decided as he remembered what the prisoner had sounded like. It was sheer terror, Sam thought, the sound a man makes when he knows that he’s going to die and his time is running out.

  There was something more going on here, but Marshal Coleman either couldn’t or wouldn’t allow himself to see it. Coleman wanted to keep the peace in Cottonwood, and Sam couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. It was the marshal’s job, and Coleman had devoted his life to it.

  But Sam knew he couldn’t just stand by and let all those prisoners be killed in cold blood. Even if they had been real outlaws instead of men who had just run afoul of an ill-advised law that was bound to be overturned sooner or later, he couldn’t countenance murder.

  He didn’t want to put Marshal Coleman in a bad position, though, so anything he did, he would do on his own, without Coleman’s knowledge. Once he had reached that decision, Sam felt a little better.

  When they got back to the marshal’s office, Coleman suggested, “Why don’t you stay here for a while, Sam? Coffee on the stove, help yourself. I’ll take a turn around town. I like for folks to be able to see that the law’s lookin’ out for ’em.”

  What Coleman really wanted was for him to stay here and cool off after the confrontation with Porter, Sam knew, but he supposed that wasn’t really a bad idea. He nodded and said, “All right, Marshal.”

  Anyway, this would give him a chance to think about what he was going to do about the situation. He knew how Matt would approach the problem: head on, with fists and even guns if necessary.

  Sam wondered if a little subtlety might be more effective.

  Coleman left the office. Sam poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the desk to ponder matters as he sipped the strong black brew.

  He had been there maybe half an hour when the door opened and Hannah came in.

  “Oh,” she said as she stopped just inside the door. “I was looking for my father—” Her eyes widened in surprise. “Is that a deputy’s badge you’re wearing, Sam?”

  “Yep. Your father offered me the job this morning, and I said yes.”

  “But…I didn’t think the town council was willing to hire any deputies.”

  “He offered to pay me out of his own pocket.” Sam held up a hand as a concerned expression appeared on Hannah’s face. “Don’t worry. I told him he didn’t need to do that. I’m working for room and board only.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door to the storage room. “The room is a cot back there, and I’m afraid the board is you, Miss Coleman.”

  Hannah smiled. “I thought we were past that. My name is Hannah, Sam. So Dad promised you three square meals a day, did he?”

  “His exact words, as a matter of fact,” Sam said with a grin. “I hope that won’t be too much trouble for you.”

  “No trouble at all. I usually bring his lunch down here to the office. I’ll just bring enough for two. And you can eat breakfast and supper at the house with us.”

  “I’m much obliged.”

  “I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Hannah said. “Don’t tell him I said this, but the job has gotten to be too much for one man, especially one who’s getting on in years like Dad. The town is too big, and what with this new liquor law…” She shook her head. “There’s going to be real trouble one of these days, and I’d like to think there’ll be a good man siding him when it comes.”

  Sam warned, “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay on here.”

  Hannah shook her head. “You know how the air feels when there’s a thunderstorm brewing?”

  Sam nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.

  “Well, there’s a storm brewing here in Cottonwood,” she went on, “and I don’t think it’s going to be long before it breaks.”

  Chapter 22

  Hannah left the office, and Marshal Coleman came in a short time later. “I just talked to Doc Berger,” he said as he hung his hat on one of the nails by the door. “A couple of that fella’s fingers were broken, all right. Doc splinted ’em. He had a bullet wound in his leg, too.” Coleman’s voice took on a grim tone. “But he was in good shape compared to some of those other hombres.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Sam said. He was at the stove, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Not after the way I heard them groaning in those prison wagons.”

  Coleman went behind the desk and sank into his chair. His movements held the bone-deep weariness that the years will give a man, especially when he’s burdened down with troubles besides growing old. “According to Doc,” he went on, “all the boys in that first wagon are shot up pretty bad. He wasn’t sure that some of them would make it, and they dang sure aren’t in any shape to be jolted all the way to Wichita. He told Porter and Bickford that they ought to bring the worst ones down to his house so he can tend to them better. Porter refused, though. Said the prisoners had to stay locked up. Doc told him that in any case they shouldn’t be moved for at least a week, and that if they were, it’d be the same as killin’ ’em.”

  “So what’s Porter going to do?” Sam asked.

  “He wanted to move on anyway, claimed those prisoners didn’t deserve any special consideration, but Bickford talked him into staying here for a few days and seeing how they’re doing then. That’s what Doc told me, anyway. I wasn’t there.”

  Sam nodded. “And did the doctor find out anything about how those men came to be wounded so badly?”

  “Porter wouldn’t let any of the prisoners say a word. He stood right over them with a gun while Doc was examining them and told them to keep their mouths shut.” Coleman grimaced. “I’m sure those fellas put up a fight when Porter and the
others went to arrest ’em, and that’s how they got hurt, but I’m tellin’ you, Sam…I don’t like the way that fella goes about his business.”

  “Neither do I. Maybe someone should write the governor a letter and make sure he knows how his special marshals are doing their jobs.”

  Coleman nodded slowly. “Now, that’s not a bad idea. I reckon I could do that.” He chuckled. “Might need a hand gettin’ all the words right from somebody who’s had more book learning than I have. That would be you, Sam.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can, Marshal,” Sam agreed.

  But writing a letter to the governor wasn’t going to help those men who were locked up in the prison wagons right now, he thought. Even if the letter caused the governor to look into Porter’s activities, any investigation would come too late to do any good for those prisoners.

  This wasn’t over yet, Sam vowed to himself. There were still truths to be uncovered.

  The rest of the day passed quietly enough. Hannah brought lunch to the office for Sam and her father, as she had promised, and the food—savory ham, thick slices of bread, and a hefty piece of pie for each man—was good enough to make Sam think that he had gotten the best end of the deal when he’d agreed to work for room and board. Hannah’s cooking alone made it a worthwhile arrangement.

  During the afternoon, Sam took a couple of turns around town to let people see him wearing the badge and get used to the idea that he was Coleman’s deputy. As Coleman told him to do, though, he kept his distance from the creek and the prison wagons parked under the cottonwood trees.

  It wasn’t just a matter of following orders. Sam didn’t want to put Porter even more on his guard than the special marshal already was. If Porter thought he was getting his way, he was more likely to relax a little…although Sam didn’t figure that the stiff-necked son of a bitch ever really relaxed much.

  Supper at the marshal’s house was every bit as good as lunch had been, if not better, and after Hannah refused Sam’s offer to help clean up, he and Coleman went out to sit on the porch and enjoy the evening air as they had done the previous night. The main difference was that Matt had been with them, then. Sam couldn’t help but wonder what his blood brother was doing out there at the Harlow place. He hoped Matt was all right.

  “I got that letter to Governer St. John started,” Coleman said as he filled his pipe. “Left it on the desk in the office, if you’d care to take a look at it when you go back down there.”

  “Sure, I’d be glad to,” Sam said with a nod. “Would you like me to make evening rounds?”

  Coleman scratched a match into life on the sole of his boot and held the flame to the bowl of his pipe. When he had puffed until the tobacco was burning to suit him, he shook the match out and dropped it onto the porch.

  “I’d sure appreciate that, son,” he said. “To tell you the truth, once I’ve had supper, it’s hard for me to rattle these old hocks of mine into much motion again.”

  “Then don’t worry about it,” Sam told him. “I’ll make sure the town’s locked up tight.”

  “Much obliged to you. Once you’ve done that, you can head back to the office and turn in. If those cousins of Cimarron Kane that we’ve got locked up make too much racket for you to sleep, toss a bucket of water on ’em. Maybe that’ll cool ’em off.”

  “It probably won’t come to that,” Sam said. “They carry on so much they’re bound to be getting tired by now. Anyway, I just don’t pay any attention to them.”

  “That’s smart.”

  Earlier, while Sam and Coleman were both at the marshal’s office and jail, the owner of the local café had brought meals over for the prisoners. They didn’t get much to eat—the town’s budget wouldn’t allow for that, according to the tight-fisted town councilmen—but the prisoners were fed well enough that they wouldn’t starve while they were locked up.

  Having the three of them in jail was yet another worry. Sam knew that he and Coleman couldn’t forget about the possibility that Cimarron Kane and some of his hard-bitten relatives might come into town and try to spring Dud, Nelse, and Wiley Kane. As Sam thought about that, he was glad that he had agreed to pin on the deputy’s badge. Caught between two sets of troubles—the Kanes on one side, Porter and the other special lawmen on the other—Coleman would have had a hard job dealing with both.

  He’d feel better about things if Matt were here, too, Sam mused, but he was practical enough to deal with a situation the way it was, not the way he wished it might be.

  Hannah came out onto the porch and sat down next to her father. Sam was on the steps with the shaggy little mutt Lobo nuzzling his hand.

  “It’s a beautiful evening,” Hannah said as she began to move the rocking chair back and forth a little.

  “Sure is,” her father agreed.

  “That was a wonderful meal, Hannah,” Sam told her.

  “Thank you. I do my best.”

  The small talk continued for a while. Then Sam stood up and stretched. “I guess I’d better get going.”

  “Sam’s going to make the evening rounds so I won’t have to,” Coleman explained.

  “Good,” Hannah said. “You work too hard, Dad. It’s about time you took life a little easier.”

  She seemed to think that he was going to stay on here permanently, Sam thought, even though he had told her earlier in the day that wasn’t going to happen. Maybe she thought she could change his mind.

  Maybe she could, he told himself suddenly. He and Matt had never discussed what they would do when the time came for them to finally settle down. Sam had sort of assumed they would return to their ranches in Montana.

  But it didn’t have to be that way. He could sell his ranch to Matt. If the two spreads were combined, the result would be one of the biggest and best ranches on the northern plains. Sam could stay here and marry Hannah, maybe take over as marshal when Coleman hung up his gun and retired…

  Sam’s jaw tightened. He was human. He couldn’t stop such thoughts from stealing into his brain, but he didn’t have to go along with them, either. He needed to concentrate on now, not the future, and right now he wanted to find out if there was any truth to what that prisoner had said about Porter planning to murder them.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Marshal,” he said. “Good night, Hannah.”

  “Good night, Sam.” Her voice was soft and sweet, no denying it. The sort of voice a man could enjoy hearing every day for the rest of his life.

  Sam shook that thought out of his head as he went down the walk to the street.

  He made the rounds of Cottonwood’s business district, rattling doorknobs on the buildings that were already locked up for the night, as well as checking in at the ones that were still open, like the café, Pete Hilliard’s mercantile, and the livery stable.

  Ike Loomis regarded him nervously. “I heard you was a deputy now, Two Wolves,” he said. “That gonna cause a problem?”

  Sam knew the man was worried about what he’d told the blood brothers the night before. He put Loomis’s mind at ease by saying, “Anything I learned last night was before I pinned on a badge. I don’t see what one thing has to do with the other.”

  Loomis heaved a sigh. “Mighty decent of you to look at it that way, son. I wouldn’t want Marsh Coleman put in a bad spot.”

  “Neither would I.” Sam knew he was bending the law by ignoring Loomis’s hidden saloon, but he honestly didn’t see what good it would do to reveal the secret. Anyway, it was possible that Coleman was already aware of the saloon and was turning a blind eye to it on purpose.

  “You know,” Loomis said, “if you was to ever…naw, never mind.”

  Sam stiffened. “What were you about to say, Mr. Loomis?”

  “I was about to offer you a payoff for lookin’ the other way, son,” Loomis answered bluntly. “Then I realize that’d be the wrong thing to do.”

  “It sure would,” Sam agreed. “I’m doing this because the marshal has enough trouble on his plate right now without worryi
ng about anything else. If things settle down, things may be different.”

  “Reckon we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sam left the livery stable and walked to the hotel. Earlier he had moved all of his gear out of the rented room and taken it over to the marshal’s office, stowing it in the back room where he would sleep. As he came in now, he gave the clerk a friendly nod. The man’s name was Herman, Sam had learned.

  “Evening, Herman,” he said. “Are Marshal Porter and Marshal Bickford in their rooms?”

  The clerk glanced at the rack of keys behind the desk. “Yep, looks like it. You need to see them?”

  Sam shook his head. “No, I’m just making sure they’re settled in for the night. Part of my evening rounds for Marshal Coleman, I guess you could say. Making sure the town’s special guests don’t need anything.”

  Herman made a face. “That Marshal Porter is about the unfriendliest gent I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I don’t see how Marshal Bickford puts up with him. But they’re both fine as far as I know. Had their supper, went down to the creek to check on their prisoners, and came back and turned in. Those deputies of theirs are upstairs in their rooms, too.”

  “All of them?” Sam asked.

  “Well, all but a couple.”

  That came as no surprise. Sam hadn’t expected Porter to leave the prison wagons unguarded, but it looked like the special marshal had been satisfied with posting only two sentries, as he had done during the day.

  “I’m glad Marshal Coleman’s got himself some help at last,” Herman went on. “He’s done a bang-up job of keeping the peace here in Cottonwood, but the way things are going, what with these new laws and that gunman Cimarron Kane hanging around, I’m afraid hell’s liable to start popping around here. You don’t think you could talk Mr. Bodine into signing on as a deputy, too, do you?”

  “Matt’s not in town right now, but we’ll see,” Sam replied noncommittally.

  “If Porter or Bickford come downstairs, you want me to tell them you were asking about them?”