“You watch yourself !” Stone exclaimed as Will went out the door. Not certain exactly how crazy Greeley was, he was a little concerned about the possibility of a return visit from him before he got home safely to Mrs. Stone. He wished now that he had asked Will to escort him home before looking for Greeley, at the same time feeling shameful for even thinking about it.
Outside the building, Will was relieved to find his two horses still standing at the rail. He climbed on Buster and headed for the stable, thinking that would be the first place Greeley would go. When he reined Buster to a stop, he jumped down and asked, “Seen Greeley?”
Vern Tuttle met him at the door, having heard the shots. “Not since you were here a little while ago. What was the shootin’ about?”
“A little trouble at the courthouse,” Will said, and gave him a brief explanation, being in too much a hurry to go into detail. He was puzzled because he figured Greeley would get out of town as quickly as he could. The next place to look would be the Smith House Saloon. Greeley had a room over the saloon and was no doubt still there packing his things. He paused to take a look at Buster, knowing the buckskin had not had ample rest since having just traveled about twenty-five miles. He wasn’t going to be in the best shape to compete with Greeley’s gray, if it came to a chase. “I might wanna borrow a horse from you if I have to,” he said to Vern. He pulled his saddle off Buster and turned him out with the other horses in the corral while Vern did the same for Billy Cotton’s horse. Then he drew his Winchester from the saddle sling and said, “I’m goin’ to look for Alvin Greeley. If I miss him, and he shows up here, try to stall him as much as you can, but don’t go so far as to rile him. He ain’t in his right mind right now.” Cranking a cartridge into the chamber of his rifle, he hurried out of the stable on foot, heading for the Smith House Saloon, leaving a mystified Vern Tuttle trying to figure out what was going on.
* * *
Will had figured correctly. Greeley was in his room at the Smith House, but he was not packing up to leave. He had messed up and he knew it, but he blamed it on Will Tanner. Tanner was the cause of all the resentment and rage that had been churning inside his gut for some time now. And every day, it seemed, he heard more and more praise for Will’s successful arrests from the other deputies, until he was sick in the gut. Lately, whiskey had become the only remedy for dealing with his hatred and a large dose was called for at that. So the festering sore had finally come to a head. He had not intended it to end this way, but so be it, he had said a little too much and showed his hand. “Let the son of a bitch come after me,” he muttered under his breath. “He’ll find out he ain’t goin’ up against a two-bit outlaw like Billy Cotton. After I kill Tanner, I’ll shoot the next one Stone sends, or Stone himself, if he’s got the guts to face me.” Satisfied with his decision, he checked to make sure his gun belt was full and his .44 was loaded. Then he picked up his rifle and went downstairs to the saloon.
Lou Barton, the bartender, looked up to see Greeley walk down the stairs, carrying his rifle. “Where you headed, Alvin?” Lou asked, thinking the deputy was on his way out.
“Right back to that corner table,” Greeley replied. “And I’ll need a bottle of that sour mash whiskey you sell and a glass. Put it on my bill.” He turned and went straight to a small table in the rear corner of the room. He sat down in the chair behind the table with his back to the wall and laid his rifle down in the chair beside him.
Lou couldn’t help casting a sideways glance at the surly deputy marshal as he pulled a bottle from under the counter and picked up a clean glass. Greeley was drinking a lot more than usual lately and always seemed to be irritated about one thing or another. But something must have lit his fuse tonight. He acted like he was preparing for war when he came storming in the saloon a few minutes before. Without saying a word to anyone at the bar, he went straight up to his room, taking two steps at a time. And now he was sitting at that back table, looking as if he was expecting an unwelcome guest.
“You expectin’ company, Alvin?” Lou asked as he placed the bottle and glass on the table.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Greeley snarled, and uncorked the bottle.
Lou was rapidly getting the feeling that some trouble might be on the way to his saloon and Greeley’s short answer tended to reinforce it. “I hope there ain’t gonna be no trouble in here tonight,” he said. “Good thing we got us a deputy marshal to keep the peace,” he added. Greeley didn’t bother to reply, his response was a scowl from under his heavy dark eyebrows. Lou was distracted then when a couple of his regulars got up from their table and walked out. “A little early for you fellers, ain’t it Jim?” Lou called after them.
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Jim replied.
“No poker game tonight?” Lou asked.
“Reckon not,” Jim answered. “We’ll most likely start one up tomorrow night.”
Then he went out the door, leaving Lou to fret over the loss of business. He couldn’t explain it, but there seemed to be a heavy tension in the atmosphere inside the saloon. Maybe it was his imagination, but he suspected that the two who just left felt it, too. He turned to take another look at the scowling lawman seated at the back table. Maybe that’s what made them decide to clear out, he thought, seeing the menacing image that Greeley projected, hunkered over his glass of whiskey like a grizzly bear protecting a kill. He walked back behind the bar and started rinsing out shot glasses, anticipating the late crowd that usually wandered in. It was only a few minutes later when the cause of the tension in the air walked in the door.
Expecting Greeley to open fire as soon as he caught sight of him, Will stood cautiously just inside the door, his rifle aimed at the solitary figure seated at the back table. He felt sure that Greeley was waiting for him inside the saloon when he saw a couple of patrons leaving hurriedly. Even though Greeley didn’t immediately open up on him with the pistol in his lap, or the rifle on the chair beside him, Will maintained a cautious attitude. “I figured you’d be comin’ to call,” Greeley growled, his words slurred by the additional whiskey he had consumed. “Comin’ to make an arrest, are you?” He sneered and said, “Better go back and get some help, ’cause you ain’t man enough to take me in by yourself.”
Will realized that the reason lead wasn’t already flying was because of Greeley’s need to express all the bitterness he felt toward him. “Dan just sent me over to get you to come back and talk to him about this trouble. Because of your long service as a deputy marshal, he wants to see what caused you to do what you did and make it as easy on you as possible.” While he talked, he made his way casually over to the bar, thinking to use it for cover in the event Greeley decided to bring the confrontation to a head. Judging by the look of open contempt on Greeley’s face, he could guess that he was working on a short fuse that was liable to cause him to explode any minute. The only reason he hadn’t was because there were still a few things Greeley wanted to say to him. “Whaddaya say, Alvin? Let’s walk out of here together. There ain’t no need for anybody to get killed.”
“I wouldn’t walk two steps with you,” Greeley shot back. “You think you’re hell on a saddle, don’t you? You make a few arrests and think you’re the whole law in this district. I was running outlaws to ground in Injun Territory when you were tendin’ cows on that two-bit ranch of yours. And you ain’t likely to ever be the deputy I am. You ain’t got the makin’s.”
Will glanced at Lou Barton, who was seemingly paralyzed by the confrontation taking place between the two lawmen. Will motioned for him to get down behind the bar. Lou jerked his head back as if suddenly being awakened, then immediately ducked down. Looking back at Greeley, Will said, “You might be right, I might not ever be the deputy you are. You’ve had your say now, so let’s go on back to the courthouse. Leave the rifle where it is and put that .44 on the table. Do it with your left hand.”
“Like hell I will!” Greeley spat, and pulled the trigger on the .44 in his lap. Anticipating it, Will pulled the tri
gger on his rifle only a split second later, never flinching when the slug from Greeley’s pistol smacked into the counter inches from his leg. The slug from his rifle caught Greeley high in the chest, causing him to go over backward while trying to reach for his rifle. Before he could right himself, Will quickly moved to kick both weapons out of his reach. In pain now, Greeley lay helpless, staring up at Will, knowing he was seriously wounded. “Finish the job,” he implored.
“Killin’ you ain’t my job,” Will said, “ just like killin’ Billy Cotton wasn’t yours. We’ll get you outta here and get the doctor to take care of you.”
Confident that the shooting was over, Lou released himself from the ball he had made of his body under the counter and crawled out to stare at the wounded deputy. “I swear . . .” was all he could say until Will told him to go outside and send somebody for the doctor.
“Tell Doc to bring his buckboard,” Will said. “Greeley ain’t in no condition to walk.” He returned to Greeley’s side. “Sorry it had to come to this,” he told him.
“Go to hell,” Greeley grunted painfully. Will responded with a shrug. “I shoulda shot you as soon as you walked in the door,” Greeley went on.
“Yeah, reckon you shoulda,” Will said.
In a little while, Doc Peters walked in the saloon, grumbling. “Well, you’ve finally gotten to where you’re shooting each other. I shoulda known you were the one doing the shooting,” he aimed at Will. “It seems like you don’t ever send for me except when I’m about to sit down to eat my supper.” He bent over the wounded man and started to examine the bullet hole. “That doesn’t look too good, Greeley. I’m gonna have to get that bullet outta there before it causes more damage. You ain’t gonna die, but you ain’t gonna be moving around much for a while.” He looked back at Will. “We need to get him to my surgery.”
“All right,” Will replied. “But he’s under arrest, so he’ll be goin’ to the jail when you finish with him.” Since there were no other deputies in town at this time, Will would have to stay with Greeley until Doc finished with him. Then he would take him to jail. It was not a situation that he was comfortable with. He and Greeley had never gotten along since their first exposure to each other, but now that circumstances had led to this face-off, he didn’t like the feeling of having shot another lawman. “Can’t you take that bullet out in the jail?” Will asked Doc, anxious to be done with his part in this thing.
“Oh, I suppose I could,” Doc replied. “I could even lay him down in the street outside and dig the bullet out there.” He paused to grace Will with a look of sarcasm. “Hell, no, I need to operate in my surgery where he’s got half a chance of not getting infected.”
* * *
It was later in the evening when Greeley was ready to be transported to the jail. He was not looking too good when Will was met at the facility under the courtroom by the night jailor. “I heard you were bringin’ him in,” Ron Horner said when he unlocked the door. “Helluva thing, ain’t it? I mean, Alvin Greeley, don’t seem right.”
“No,” Will said. “But that’s the way it is. I reckon he just got mixed up in his brain. He’s your problem now, and I’m damn glad of it. I didn’t like my part in it.” He stood back as two guards carried Greeley inside on a stretcher with a sheet over him. He looked as if he was barely hanging on. Will happened to notice that one of the guards was wearing a gun belt with an empty holster. It just crossed his mind as odd, before he realized what it meant. In the next instant, the gun fired from under the sheet, sending a slug inches from Will’s head to imbed itself into the wall behind him. Stunned, the two guards froze, still holding the stretcher while Will rushed to defend himself, but another shot from the pistol lashed out from under the sheet before Will had time to cock and fire his rifle, silencing Greeley for good. He was aware only then that Greeley’s second shot had found purchase in the shoulder of one of the guards.
So it was done, and this time for good. He told himself there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, short of leaving the service. And he had not been inclined to do that. “Best get your man over to Doc Peters while you can still catch him in his office,” he told Horner. “Don’t tell him I had anything to do with it.” He took a moment to consider the events of that day. “I need a drink,” he decided.
The events of the evening had put him too late for supper at Bennett House, so he decided to stop at the Morning Glory for that shot of whiskey he thought he needed, and maybe see if Mammy had anything left in her kitchen. Gus Johnson was standing in the open doorway when Will walked up. “Evenin’, Will,” Gus greeted him. “What was the shootin’ about earlier?” Will told him about the trouble that ended with Alvin Greeley’s death. “Well, I’ll be . . .” Gus exclaimed. “I know he went after you in here the other day, but I’da never thought he’d go that far. I swear . . .”
Will shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “I reckon I’m too late to get anything to eat. Has Mammy thrown everything out already?”
“I don’t know. I’ll see.” He walked to the kitchen door and called out to her. “Mammy, is it too late to get something to eat?”
“Hell, yes,” Mammy’s shrill voice called back. “I’m already cleanin’ up my kitchen.” Gus turned back toward Will and shrugged helplessly. Then the voice called out again. “Who’s wantin’ to eat?”
“Will Tanner,” Gus answered. “He said he figured it was too late.”
“Tell him to hold on a minute and I’ll fix him something. It won’t be fancy, but it’ll be better’n nothin’.”
Gus walked back to the bar, grinning. “Mammy wouldn’t do that for just anybody. I think she’s got a soft spot when it comes to you.”
“She ain’t the only one,” Lucy Tyler said when she walked up to join them. “I’m startin’ to wonder if Mammy ain’t the one you’re true-lovin’ that keeps you from goin’ upstairs with me,” she teased.
“I reckon there ain’t no use tryin’ to deny it,” Will said. He picked up the shot glass Gus placed before him and tossed the whiskey back.
In a few minutes, Gus’s fragile little gray-haired cook came from the kitchen carrying a plate and a cup of coffee. She paused when she saw them standing at the bar. “You gonna set down to eat, or are you gonna eat standin’ up?” Without waiting for an answer, she placed the plate with three biscuits on one of the tables and stood there until he walked over to sit down. Will was well aware that he was getting special service because he always made it a point to compliment her cooking, even when it wasn’t good. “You almost missed out tonight,” she said. “But there’s usually a biscuit or two left and I sliced off some of that ham I had for supper.”
“It looks like a banquet for a prince,” Will said. “I reckon that’s why you’re the best cook in the territory.” She responded with a subtle snort, the closest she ever came to a smile. “I appreciate it, Mammy. I shouldn’ta put you to the trouble.” She snorted again, spun on her heel, and returned to her kitchen.
Lucy sat with him while he ate his biscuits and ham, making small talk until one of her regular customers came in. When she left, Will had one more shot of whiskey, then headed for home, knowing he would be expected to report to Dan Stone first thing in the morning. It seemed odd to him that Stone had chosen to go home instead of accompanying him in the arrest of Alvin Greeley.
* * *
“You missed supper,” Sophie commented when he walked into the front parlor, surprising him, for he thought she would have already retired for the night. “Are you hungry?”
“Uh, no, ma’am,” he answered. “I got something at the Mornin’ Glory. I figured I was too late to catch supper here.”
“The Morning Glory,” she echoed, but with a hint of exasperation. “I declare, you’re more like Fletcher Pride every day. Well, I saved some biscuits in the oven in case you came home half-starved.”
“That was mighty nice of you. If I’d had any idea you’ d done that, I surely woulda come straight home. I just didn
’t wanna trouble you or your mama.” And then it occurred to him. “How’d you know I was comin’ home tonight?” When he had left that morning, he had told them he wouldn’t be back.
She hesitated before answering, knowing she had been caught in her charade. “Female instinct,” she said, unable to come up with anything better. “Women know certain things before they happen.” The grin slowly forming on his face told her that she was only making it worse, the more she said. “Well, I’ve gabbed enough with you tonight. I’m going to bed.” She promptly turned and headed for the stairs. Halfway up, she looked back and said, “There are some biscuits in the oven, if you want them.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” The incident would give him more to confuse his thinking about her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over three hundred books, including the bestselling series Smoke Jensen: The Mountain Man, Preacher: The First Mountain Man, Flintlock, MacCallister and Will Tanner: Deputy U.S. Marshal, and the stand-alone thrillers Black Friday, Tyranny, and Stand Your Ground.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
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