by John Legg
The two men turned, ready to pound on Coffin -until they saw the shotgun Coffin held. It wasn’t exactly pointed at them, but it was close enough to give them a considerable dose of concern.
“The least we can do for a friend, Joe,” Lyons said tightly. He was aware that a little crowd had gathered. He was embarrassed, and that gave rise to his temperature.
Edna had taken the chance to slide out from behind Lyons and Finnegan and move to just behind Coffin. “Well, I’m obliged, Rupe. You and Mike get down to the Eagle one day, and I’ll stand you a couple of drinks.” He tried to keep from smirking, but it was difficult. “Good day, boys.”
Coffin watched as Lyons and Finnegan walked away. When he figured they had gone far enough, he turned, offered his arm to Edna, and they strolled off.
Chapter Twelve
Coffin’s hand headed toward one of his pistols as he heard the door latch rattle a little. His hand had barely touched the butt of his revolver, hanging over the bed post, when he heard Rupert Lyons say, “Don’t do it, sonny boy.”
Coffin froze, empty hand outstretched, still half kneeling, half lying between Blue Gladys’s legs. He and Blue Gladys were as naked as jaybirds.
“Get up there, sonny boy,” Lyons said in a voice that quivered with excitement.
Coffin did so gingerly. He was certain Lyons would shoot him at his first false move. Then he was standing next to the bed, trying to keep the embarrassment off his face. He stood with his hands at his side, feeling his manliness shrinking rapidly.
“He don’t look near so big now, does he, Rupe?” Big Mike Finnegan said with a chuckle as he pointed to Coffin’s groin.
“Damn small if was you to ask me, which you just did,” Lyons offered with a raspy, delighted laugh. “Stay right where you are, bitch,” Lyons suddenly snapped, looking toward Blue Gladys.
An ashen-faced Blue Gladys stopped trying to rise and instead lay back, afraid, her legs spread and bent at the knee.
“Now,” Lyons said, his humor returned, “Mike, you and Albert there keeps your guns on Mr. Shrinkin’ Man here while I tend to some business.” He dropped his own pistol into his holster, peeled off his gunbelt and dropped it around the post at the foot of the bed. Then he climbed onto the bed, between Blue Gladys’s legs. He skinned down his pants. Lyons grabbed one of Blue Gladys’s hands and placed it on his manhood. “Now be nice,” he said in a choked voice.
“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” Blue Gladys asked, even as she handled him. “I get paid for such favors.”
Lyons laughed loud and hoarsely. “You been paid, bitch. Mr. Little Dick there paid you. He never got to finish, so I’m gonna finish for him.” He turned hard, nasty eyes on Blue Gladys. “That’s enough now, bitch,” he said gruffly, “except for helpin’ me in.”
Coffin kept his face as flat as he could, trying not to betray any of the rage that seethed inside him. As surreptitiously as he could, he kept an eye on Finnegan and Albert Reece, another of Lyons’s men. Reece was an odious little man, looking like nothing more than bones and clothes, except for the thin, long peaked nose, which constantly ran. He watched, hoping that both of the men would get distracted by Lyons’s bouncing and grunting. It would take Coffin no more than a few moments to grab a Remington and blast Finnegan and his moronic little partner. Then he could take his time finishing off Lyons.
Reece’s attention wavered from watching Coffin to watching his boss with wheezing pleasure. Finnegan’s eyes never wavered from Coffin.
Within minutes Lyons was sounding like a dying hog, and moments later he was done. He lay atop Blue Gladys until he caught his breath. Then he rolled back and pulled up his pants as he got off the bed. With his pants buttoned, he buckled his gunbelt back on.
Grinning like an ape, Lyons drew his pistol again and pointed it at Coffin. “I’ll watch the little bastard for a spell, Mike, if you want to have a go at her.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Blue Gladys once again endured the disgusting though enthusiastic rumblings of what passed for lovemaking for Mike Finnegan. Then he, too, was done, and it was Albert Reece’s turn. He was a little quieter, and he squeaked rather than grunted. He also lasted no more than a few seconds.
“You owe me for two more, Rupe, you cheap son of a bitch,” Blue Gladys said flatly.
“Another time, bitch. Now, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay here for a while.”
“What’re you gonna do with him?” she asked, eyes wide with fright. She pointed at Coffin.
“Hell, I ain’t gonna hurt him none, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Lyons said soothingly.
Blue Gladys didn’t believe him any more than Coffin did, but neither said anything.
Lyons looked back at Coffin. “You know, Mr. Coffin, that you hurt my feelin’s the other day when you threatened me with that scattergun. Took me down a peg or two with the good folks of Crooked Creek.”
Coffin shrugged. “I didn’t know you had any feelin’s to be hurt,” he said flatly.
“Well I do, Mr. Coffin,” Lyons said reasonably. “Yes, I do.” He paused and stroked his neck a few moments with his left hand. “Now, had you really humiliated me, I would’ve killed you straight as soon as I could. But you didn’t, and I expect you really didn’t know any better. Because of that—and because I’m just a friendly sort of fella—I ain’t gonna kill ya. Nope.” He shook his head, looking like every man’s best friend doing a painful but necessary task.
“Nice of ya,” Coffin said sarcastically.
Lyons nodded, as if he agreed with Coffin. “Besides, you was kind enough to pay Miss Gladys here for my sportin’. I expect you’ll be happy to pay for Mike’s and Albert’s turns, too.” He sighed. “But that can wait.”
“You mind tellin’ me what you got planned for me?” Coffin asked nonchalantly.
“Naw, don’t mind a-tall.” He paused, smiling as he thought of what he had planned. “I’m aimin’ to humiliate you some, like you done to me. Now, march. Outside and downstairs.”
Coffin stalled a second, expecting Lyons to tell him to hurry up and get his pants on. Then he realized that Lyons was going to humiliate him by making him walk around the saloon in his birthday suit. He could accept that without too much discomfort, he figured. He shrugged and moved toward the door.
They made a strange little procession: Joe Coffin, naked as the day he was born, followed by three grinning men holding pistols on him, and then Blue Gladys who had jumped out of bed pulling the sheet with her. As the parade came down the stairs, she hastily wrapped the sheet around her.
“Take a turn around the place there, Shorty,” Lyons said. He followed Coffin fairly closely, wanting to make sure Coffin didn’t grab someone’s pistol or something. Finnegan and Reece were right behind him.
Coffin could feel his ears burning, and he hoped the rest of him was not as red as he felt with the embarrassment. Still, it wasn’t all that bad. Of course it didn’t help him any with the hoots, catcalls, whoops and other assorted noises emitted by the saloon’s patrons.
Coffin finished his circuit of the saloon and stopped at the foot of the stairs. Blue Gladys was standing there, sheet still wrapped loosely around her. She grinned at Coffin, who returned the smile. He placed a hand on the banister and put a foot on the first step.
“Not so fast there, Sonny Boy,” Lyons said.
Coffin turned his head to look at Lyons. There was a light in Lyons’s eyes that Coffin did not like at all.
Lyons waved his pistol. “Outside,” he ordered, his voice turning suddenly harsh.
Coffin turned and glared at him, trying almost desperately to bottle up the sudden flash of rage.
Lyons grinned maliciously. He lowered the pistol some. “Or I could shoot ’em off here and now,” he said, sounding as if he were really enjoying himself.
Coffin hesitated, wondering if he should take the risk. After all, there was no reason to think that Lyons would not do what he had just sa
id after parading Coffin around for his perverted humor some more. Then Coffin sighed mentally. It would be a certain thing now if he gave Lyons any trouble. And if that happened, he would probably not live long enough to kill Lyons. As long as he was still alive and whole, there was always a chance to do something about his situation.
The thoughts lasted no more than the blink of an eye. Still managing to keep his temper in check, Coffin moved his foot off the step.
Lyons grinned vacuously again and wagged the pistol barrel. Coffin sucked in a deep breath and then eased it out. Then he marched off. The parade was a little longer, and a little more strange than it had been. The naked Coffin was followed by three gunmen, one prostitute wrapped in a cheap bed sheet, several of her fellow painted women and a half-dozen men with various drinks in hand.
“Where to?” Coffin asked tightly just outside the doors.
“A parade up and down Cottonwood Street would be about right, don’t you think?”
Coffin shrugged and stepped off the boardwalk into the cold street. It was close to spring, but winter was making a last gasp effort before being shoved aside. A weak afternoon sun provided mild heat. The temperature was just at the freezing point. A light, sifting snow was falling, and the ground was still frozen. The wind and snow chilled him quickly, and then the cold seeped up from the hard ground into his feet. Coffin fought as hard to keep from shivering as he did to keep his fury in check.
Time lost meaning for Coffin. He just marched along, occasionally prodded by Lyons or Finnegan. He was aware, but only in a vague sense, that quite a few people had stopped to watch and point, many of them laughing. Women gasped and whispered, pointing in shocked amusement.
At the intersection of Cottonwood Street and River Street, Lyons and the steadily growing parade of onlookers turned Coffin back the other way. Somewhere after having passed the Twisted Water again, Lyons finally told Coffin to stop.
Coffin did so, and turned to look at Lyons. Nothing could be seen in his face, but Lyons was a bit uneasy at the hard sheen over Coffin’s eyes. Then he shook off the gloom. He had had himself a hell of a time here, and provided the citizens of Crooked Creek with an entertainment that did not come along every day. Besides, he always felt better when he was able to shame or abuse someone this way.
“Well, sonny boy,” Lyons said magnanimously, “I hope you’ve learned somethin’ today. It doesn’t pay to publicly humiliate me.” He grinned, enjoying the limelight. “Now, why don’t you go on back to your room over there at Eagan’s before your pecker freezes off. You can come get your things tomorrow. Oh, and Blue Gladys will be takin’ the money due her from your pockets. Just so you know and so you don’t go accusin’ folks of stealin’ from you.”
Lyons whooped once, loudly and fired his pistol in the air. “Drinks’re on me, folks!” he bellowed. He turned and led a cheering crowd away, leaving Coffin virtually by himself.
One who remained was Edna Yarnell. She stood a hundred yards away, on the other side of the street, looking toward Coffin. Then she, too, turned and walked away, into Markham’s Dry Goods Store.
Coffin stood for another minute, while the wind whispered gently around him, brushing him with soft, freezing snowflakes. Then Coffin began striding up the street, refusing to give in to the chills that racked him. People began trickling out of the Twisted Water. Coffin figured that Lyons had only bought one round. A few of the people saw him and laughed. Most who spotted him, though, walked away with heads down, as if embarrassed themselves.
Almost directly across the street from the Twisted Water was Mueller’s General Store. Coffin pushed inside, clamping his jaw tight to keep his teeth from chattering. Two old women turned at the sound of the door and then turned away immediately when they saw him. They muttered to each other while shading their eyes.
Coffin ignored them as he headed for a table on which pants were piled. He generally had trouble getting trousers to fit, at least as far as length went. He found one pair that fit his waist right. They were long, but he didn’t care right now. Nearby were socks, and he pulled a pair of those on and then some boots, tucking the too-long legs of his pants into the boots. He did not worry about a shirt.
Coffin clomped up to the glass-fronted counter to his left of the cash register. Otto Mueller stood with arms crossed across his chest, glaring at Coffin. Mueller was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a mane of white hair and matching mustache. He had piercing blue eyes and a permanent hard cast to his face.
Coffin gave him an equally hard stare, then lifted a fist and punched it through the glass counter. Mueller jumped as if struck. He moved to grab Coffin.
“You keep the hell away from me, Otto,” Coffin growled. “Don’t even think of layin’ a finger on me.”
“But my counter,” Mueller protested.
“I’ll make it good. Everything else, too. Now stay away from me, dammit.”
Mueller did not like it, but he had never had trouble with Coffin before. He wanted to see what Coffin would do.
Coffin was no longer paying attention to Mueller. He reached into the glass case and picked up a .44-caliber Remington. He brushed shards of glass off a package of paper cartridges and opened the box. Methodically, he tore open the paper, poured the powder into the cylinder, and then rammed the lead ball home. He filled all six cylinders this time. There was no need for safety right now. He pulled out the small tin of percussion caps and set one on each nipple of the pistols. He grabbed another Remington and loaded that, too. He was about ready to leave, when he shrugged and grabbed a .44-caliber Colt and loaded it. Once more he dipped into the box of paper cartridges and pulled out a handful.
He was about to shove them into a pants pocket when Mueller said, “Here, you can use this.” The storekeeper held out a small buckskin pouch.
Coffin nodded and took it. He dropped the cartridges into the pouch and then dumped the tin of caps in the little sack. He tied it to a belt loop on the pants. Coffin shoved the Colt into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. With the two Remingtons in hand, he nodded again at Mueller, and then headed for the door.
Chapter Thirteen
Randy Carstairs could not understand how a man like Joe Coffin, a friend the likes of which he had never had, and probably would never have again, could allow himself to be so mistreated and humiliated.
Randy hadn’t spent nearly as much time with Coffin in the past couple of months as he had earlier. Randy didn’t fully understand it, but he had some inkling of courting and such. He hadn’t been too upset at Coffin’s many absences. After all, a man had to work.
He did, though, miss spending time with Coffin. The short, powerful man had taught him much in the way of handling himself and dealing with bullies. Indeed, Randy had even managed to fight his nemesis—Howie Magee—to a draw one day when Magee had been taunting him unmercifully. Randy had started to get angry, ready to just leap on Magee. But slowly Coffin’s words had asserted themselves in his mind. He shut down his anger as best he could, and appeared to be calm and unconcerned. Magee increased the volume and enmity of his epithets. Then, when Magee was highly frustrated because Randy seemed nonplused by all the taunts, Randy jumped on him. Surprised, Magee had quickly managed to gain an almost upper hand. Together the two had decided to call it a draw. Howie Magee had not bothered Randy much after that. So Randy stood on a box in the small space between Medved’s Hardware and the Twisted Water wondering how Joe Coffin could allow himself to be so humiliated. He stood there watching, until almost everyone was gone into the saloon. Still, he stayed there and watched as Coffin walked slowly up the street. When he saw Coffin turn into Mueller’s, Randy was ready to leave. It was cold, and he was totally dispirited by what had happened to Coffin. But something kept him in place. He watched and waited and hoped something would happen.
Then Coffin had come out of Mueller’s, a big pistol in each hand, and Randy felt a ripple of excitement.
With a Remington in each hand, Coffin left Mu
eller’s and stalked across the cold, almost barren street. He stopped only a moment outside the door of the Twisted Water. He took a deep breath and then slammed the door open, with a kick hard enough to knock the bottom hinge off.
There were not that many patrons in the saloon, and those took one look at the hard set of Coffin’s face and began scrambling to get back against the side walls. That way they would be out of the line of fire, or more hopefully, be able to get out once Coffin moved away from the entrance.
That left Lyons, Finnegan, Reece and a man known only as Rickets, another of Lyons’s hired hands, standing near the bar. They were all looking toward the door.
“Well, well, well, look at this, boys,” Lyons said with a laugh, “if it ain’t Nature Boy himself come back for another round.”
“A little overdressed, ain’t you?” Finnegan said with a satisfied laugh.
Coffin moved a dozen steps inside the saloon and a few yards to his left to get away from the door a little. He did not notice that Randy Carstairs had slipped inside and crouched against the wall next to the door.
Coffin lifted a Remington and shot Rickets twice. The scabrous reprobate of uncertain lineage looked at Coffin with wide, blank eyes. Then his bowed legs lost their strength, and he crumpled as he wheezed his last breath on the sawdust-covered floor.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Finnegan breathed in awe. He, Lyons and Reece stood, stunned, drinks held in hand in midair.
“Hey,” Lyons finally said, trying to recover some semblance of equilibrium, “why the hell’d you do that?” He was incredulous.
Coffin stared unblinkingly at the three men.
“Jesus, Sonny...I mean, Christ, we were just havin’ some fun is all.” Real fear began to creep up Lyons’s spine. He was beginning to think that he had made a major miscalculation. He had seen Coffin as just a small, unimportant smart-mouth; a cocky young man who thought he was better than he was. Now he was not so sure. No, not sure at all.