Gillom washed up in their room as Ease roused and stretched.
“I could use a little hair of that dog that bit me last night. Any whiskey left?”
Gillom shook his head. He tried to shave stubble off his unlined cheeks, but the barber had removed any stray hairs professionally the day before. He still managed to cut himself near one ear and had to clot the wound with a bit of paper. The sight of his own blood woke Gillom Rogers fully up. This could be the most dangerous day of his young life. He’d better be alert for it.
Gillom paid for his room, five dollars for two nights, dollar extra for the bigger room he’d moved into with Ease. He mentioned to the sleepy night clerk they’d done their business, enjoyed their stay, and were headed back to Bisbee. That was the false trail they’d decided on and it wouldn’t hurt to start laying it.
Thirty-nine
Out on the street the boys hiked along with their warbags and saddlebags. Leñeros, or woodmen, were selling bundles of mesquite off their burros, and housewives were buying produce from Chinese vegetable men who had wrapped their lettuces, tomatoes, chiles, and squashes in wet burlap and loaded them into bamboo baskets dangling from either end of a thick wooden pole. The 130-pound loads these slender Chinamen carried reminded Gillom of the extra weight on his own shoulders, and his sore ribs. A loafer enjoying a morning cigarette on a bench against the front wall of Mammon’s Chinese Café watched them stroll down the boardwalk, not stopping in for breakfast. The watcher spit, got up to hurry across the street toward the Blue Goose to report their passing.
Hop Yick’s grocery at the south end of Clifton’s commercial strip provided foodstuffs for their long ride home. Burlap sacks full of slab bacon, hardtack, beans, bread loaves, and steaks for today, salt crackers, coffee, even a wheel of hard cheese. At least we’ll eat well, Gillom thought, if there’s enough left of us to enjoy it. Ease remembered to buy several boxes of .44-.40 rounds and .41-caliber cartridges for his lighter Colt. Gillom even gifted his friend with a gun-cleaning kit.
* * *
In the Blue Goose’s back room, too, preparations were under way. Luther had an oiling kit out on his desk and had his Remington derringer and a .38 Lightning, a smaller, lightweight, double-action Colt, apart for cleaning when Cripes hurried in. This middle-aged man in soiled, raggedy clothing couldn’t stand still as he made his report.
“They was walkin’ south, Mister Goose, carryin’ saddlebags and toting goods. Didn’t stop for breakfast.”
“Maybe they’ve checked out?” Luther chewed this thought while Cripes scratched his scraggly red beard. “See what the hotel clerk says, if they’ve gone? Then check the train station and stage office, see if they’re buying tickets? You”—he pointed a cleaning rod at Sunny Jim—“check the stables. They might take a long ride home, but I doubt it. I wanna make sure those bastards are outta our hair, so we don’t have to sit here jumpy, waitin’ for ’em to pop in to give us a six-chamber hello.”
“Should I plug ’em I get the chance?” It was Sunny Jim, his chief bodyguard.
“No. Let’s not get Sheriff English aroused if we don’t have to. If those young jaspers haven’t heard anything about her, they might just leave town, spare me more grief.”
“Boss, we’ll let you know.”
Luther Goose stood up behind his scarred wooden desk, indeed a little jumpy as he poked a stiff thin brush down the barrel of his small revolver and squinted through its empty hole, pondering eternity.
* * *
So the boys were well laden when they walked up to the stable corrals south of town. Sam Graham awaited them, looking over the horseflesh. The horsebreaker had already picked out a couple five-year-old geldings from the limited string there, a bay and a buckskin, and Gillom quickly liked a paint pony for his missing girlfriend. Since they were buying several mounts, they were able to wheedle a deal for saddles and bridles and several well-used saddlebags to carry their food from Henry Hill, the stable owner. The bill rounded off to four hundred dollars, greenbacks, with a sack of oats and a morning’s feed for Sam’s nervous stallion, which he also talked the stableman into. This big, skinny racer was the best of the bunch he’d broken for Gene Rhodes over in New Mexico, and Sam had trained the new horse well on his long ride west. Gillom felt lighter in the moneybelt sewn inside his holster as he buckled it back on. His worldly wealth was now down to seventy-five dollars, and his posse expected him to keep paying for this rescue ride as long as it was under way.
After adjusting saddles and bridles and tying saddlebags to the new mounts, the boys practiced on these three horses, reining and starting and stopping them around a side corral to ascertain how well these animals handled before the men were finally ready to ride.
“Looking forward to greeting old Bisbee again,” Gillom said loudly, making sure Henry Hill heard him as they loped away. The saddled paint pony ran on a long lead rope trailing Ease’s horse, carrying no rider. The three amigos rode south, on the stage road that would soon angle off to the right, southwest, toward Solomonville. As soon as they were out of the stableman’s view, though, the young men looped around north, riding back toward Clifton through the brush.
* * *
The trio dry-camped north of town, where they could see Clifton in the distance from atop the low hill they squatted behind, hoping no one would come out to investigate a midday campfire. While Sam cooked fresh-cut steaks and beans, Ease tried his new gun-cleaning kit while Gillom oiled his leather holster. Over a sizzling pan, the outlaw eyed Ease working on his new pistol.
“You like that Thunderer?”
“Just bought it used, but it hefts lighter than a bigger Colt and has an easy double-action pull. Rubber grip, six-inch barrel, shoots straight, I like it. Now I have this sudden reputation in Bisbee as a shooter, my boss at the Bonanza wants me to display a sidearm, to help prevent shootings inside. I tried a hip holster, but it got in my way mixing drinks. This shoulder holster fits better, but I don’t fancy toting this lump of metal under my arm for eight hours drawing beers. You ever drink in the Bonanza?”
Sam Graham shook his head.
“It gets rowdy weekends sometimes. Last Fourth of July, they picked one guy out of a corner next morning, thought he was just sleeping off a drunk. Little bullet hole under his left ear and no one heard a thing.”
“I thought the Bonanza was a gentlemen’s club, Ease?” Gillom added.
“Not every night.” He and his pal chuckled.
Gillom looked over at their cook. “How you wanna do this, Sam? Take ’em about midnight, after they’ve been drinkin?”
“No. Early, just after dark, when they’re still thinkin’ about what they’d like for supper. We get away clean, then we’ll have all night to ride southeast, hide out at daybreak.”
Ease’s curiosity got the best of him. “You goin’ to Silver City with us, Mister Jones?”
“Might. This Goose may send men on the stage to check Solomonville, or wire ahead to have the trains watched for you all in Lordsburg. Silver City’s the most unlikely spot to be caught right off.”
“Or head the other way, up into Apache country north a’ San Carlos,” said Gillom. Graham just smiled. “Gonna ride that outlaw trail till you die, Sam?”
“I dunno. Gettin’ worn down. Robbin’s hard work and now they’ve gone and put numbers on the banknotes. Makes stolen money easier to trace by the damned bankers. I may retire to a life of leisure, runnin’ cows back in Central Texas, where my brother’s got a ranch.”
“I’d pay to see you proddin’ cattle for an honest living. We’re not breaking any laws, you know, rescuing a girl held against her will,” argued Gillom.
“Brothel owner won’t see it that way,” answered Sam. “Think of whores as their property.”
“She’s not a whore!”
“Just explaining that a fickle woman is like a careless man with a gun. They’re both apt to hurt somebody.”
“She’s not fickle, either! Whatever the hell that means?”
After a good meal the three drowsed in the summer sunshine, resting on blankets or propped against a rock. A temperature inversion was holding the warm air still and close to the ground so the smelter smoke lingered, irritating their noses and throats with sulfurous acid in the air. Nobody moved around much, hoping for a cleansing breeze. Gillom nudged Ease and they both watched dumbstruck as Sam stirred his hot coffee with the barrel of his .45, absent-mindedly flicking off the wet drips before reholstering.
“Still not too late to pull out of this, Gillom. No shame in that. You ain’t married to Anel,” said Ease.
“I might like to be.” The young gunslinger got on his knees, reached into his Levis. He pulled out the silver locket and showed it to them. “We had our photographs taken in Bisbee and Anel had this keepsake made for me, a surprise.”
His pal looked it over. “Very nice.”
“Gave you a lock of her hair, too,” admired Mr. Graham, lifting it up.
“That hair ain’t off the top of her head. Trimmed it special to prove she’d always be faithful.”
The outlaw dropped the hair clump tied with a tiny pink ribbon back into the silver oval and snapped it shut. Even the tough Texan looked a little shocked as he handed the locket back.
Ease Bixler was open-mouthed. “Jesus, Gillom. You are serious about this girl.”
The young gunslinger looked grim. “That’s why I’m here. I know Anel’s faithful, not whorin’ for this bastard. She’s my silhouette girl, Ease, trusts me to aim true for her.”
His buddy nodded, remembering. “That was quite a picnic, you two challenging each other, your tremendous target shooting.”
“Tonight ain’t gonna be easy or fun, my friend.”
“I’m aware of that, amigo.”
* * *
In the Blue Goose, glasses were being polished behind the front bar, food prepared in the kitchen for Friday night’s business. Upstairs the ladies began to get dressed, putting on their war paint for the night’s festivities. Luther Goose was busy, too, checking rooms in his two stories for shuttered windows and locked doors, securing his castle, when his chief henchman reported.
“Cripes didn’t see ’em catch a stage or a train,” announced the boss.
“I know. They bought horses this morning. Three mounts, saddles, tack for ’em, had supplies in their saddlebags. Henry at his stable said there was another man with ’em, older, knew horses, riding his own black stallion. They rode off south together, one of the youngsters saying they were going to Bisbee.”
“Three men? Four saddled horses?” Luther Goose was figuring hard as he began working his eyebrow mole again with a long finger.
Forty
Darkness swept over the Gila Mountains from the east and three men spun cylinders and holstered their revolvers. They ambled to their horses, readjusted the used saddles and bridles they’d just purchased that morning, giving each mount a last hatful of oats to chew after grazing in hobbles most of the day. A fresh boost of good feed would have to last them all night, for there would be no rest for these horses till the morrow.
Gillom deferred to the train robber about tactics, although it was his mission. Sam Graham pulled his weathered brown Stetson down to seat it firmly on his forehead, then looked his two compadres in the eyes.
“You rakehells ready?”
They rode. Coming in on the north side of town at dusk, they hoped they wouldn’t be watched for from that direction. The men dismounted and walked their horses to make themselves less noticeable as they neared the first commercial buildings at the north end of Conglomerate Avenue. They approached the rear of these buildings and the first saloon they came to, the Office, had a hitching post and watering trough out back, so they were able to refresh their four horses before tying them up. The Blue Goose was in the middle of this long block next to an alley, and Sam gave them final instructions as they walked toward it the back way.
“Ease, you stay in the alley, back end of the Goose. While I’m up trying to get in that second story, whistle if you see anyone coming along the rear of these buildings, any danger. Gillom, you stay in the shadows up front, watch who comes in their front door. If I can get inside upstairs, don’t do nothin’ unless you hear a commotion, like they’re trying to corral me. They haven’t seen me before, so I stand a chance, unlike you two. But if there’s a ruckus, any shooting, then you’re both going to have to come in that front door with your guns pulled, but not firing unless you need to. Maybe you’ll buy me an escape.”
Gillom blinked at Ease. “We can do that.”
“I hope I can locate the girl, sneak her out that upstairs back door, while you two cover us coming down those outside stairs. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get away with no shooting at all.”
“That would be nice,” agreed Ease. “Just don’t be ridin’ some downy couch while we stand out here all night, eyeballin’ the dark.”
Sam ignored the riposte. They reached the alley between the Blue Goose and a one-story, wood-framed office building. Peering down the alley to the west, they could see lights coming on and hear music from a saloon as the weekend’s entertainment began revving up in Clifton. Except for people passing along the main street, no one else was out back of these businesses yet to bother them.
Graham asked them again. “Ready?”
Gillom gripped each man by the hand. “I sure appreciate it, fellas, you takin’ this risk for me and Anel. Nobody else would have, ’cept maybe Gene Rhodes.”
Ease Bixler grinned loopily. “This is the gunfighters’ way, pard.”
The remark caused even Mr. Graham to smile. “We’ll see if either of you is a gunfighter, has that kind of sand. Just name your first two kids after us, Gillom. That’s enough for me.”
Then Sam was striding to the back stairs of the Blue Goose. Gillom drifted off into the shadows to watch the saloon’s front door. Ease watched them both go, swallowed hard, and sprung his Colt from its shoulder holster beneath his work coat.
Sam crept up the back stair landing on his boot tips like a cat. Windows were lit in the rooms upstairs as the girls got ready for their night’s labors. Graham reached the second-floor back door, but found it bolted from inside. He pulled a hunting knife from a sheath attached to his holster, but its long, pointed blade couldn’t jimmy the metal bolt open. Sam held his knife in front of him as he looked round the narrow, two-foot-wide balcony rimming the saloon’s whole second floor. He looked over the railing at Ease guarding the back alley, opened his hands wide to indicate he was flummoxed. Peering round the back corner, Sam spotted it. One of the prostitutes had vented her room to catch some cooler evening air. Lace curtains fluttered out an upraised window.
Graham scuttled along the balcony to that opened window, put his knife through the window first, then his head, holding his black hat aside in his free hand. His eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the whore’s bedroom, but nobody was home. Sam withdrew his head, bent back over the railing to catch Ease’s attention across the alley below to indicate by hand gestures that he was going inside.
Ease saluted he understood before Sam disappeared again. Whistling up the alley to Gillom, who was hugging a dark wall just off Conglomerate Avenue, Ease got his pal to turn as he pointed and indicated their outlaw friend was going inside. Gillom waved he understood, turned his gaze back to the saloon’s front door. Nobody was going in or leaving the Blue Goose. It was still early to be visiting a whorehouse, especially on a Friday night when some men didn’t have to work the next day and were probably having a cold one with their pals somewhere else. The wait gave Gillom the fidgets. He restlessly drew each of his Remingtons in their oiled holster pockets and reversed the gunbutts to face forward for a cross-handed draw. He remembered Sam’s lesson—real gunfighters carried their pistols butt forward.
Sam Graham got his long legs in through the window frame one at a time without tripping on anything with his roweled spurs. He paused a moment to let his eyes accustom to the gloom thrown by a tall
candle melting in a glass-chimnied holder. The small bedroom was standard for a high-end brothel, one level below the more luxurious accommodations in parlor houses in bigger towns he’d visited, like Denver’s. Sam sat down on the white linen summer bedspread and tested the brass bed’s bounce. He lifted the glass candleholder so he could look around the vacant bedroom. An oak lamp table beside the bed contained female accents—stoppered perfume he could smell, a bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial, an opium-laced elixir he was familiar with, Pine Knot Bitters to treat venereal disease, a bottle of rosewater douche, another bottle of Yellow Dock Sarsaparilla claiming to cause miscarriage. Atop an oak bureau with three big drawers certain to be filled with extra towels and sheets and the resident’s fancy undergarments rested a “peter pan,” a china bowl containing a bar of soap, plus a pitcher of water next to it for washing the customer before consummating business and herself afterward.
Sam was more interested in two smaller china bowls, one containing several long, thin condoms made from sheep’s intestines, and the other cradling a yellowish curved plug of beeswax hopefully to prevent pregnancy.
The outlaw got off the bed, moving his candle lamp toward the cane-bottomed chair against the wall at the end of the bed for a customer to drop his clothes on, and a full-length wall mirror in which to admire his manly glory. There was also a small woodstove in the corner, vented through the ceiling, to keep undressed customers cozy in the winter. Sam was interested in the prostitute’s large trunk, which he knew contained most of her valuables. Kneeling next to it, he lifted the buckled lid and quickly rifled the contents with one hand, finding a wad of greenbacks in a small wallet inside a leather purse, and then a small jewelry chest. His instinct for thievery overcame him. He slid open the little drawers and helped himself to the best items he examined in the glowing light. A small diamond stickpin in the shape of an owl and an opal ring circled by diamond chips went into his jeans pocket, plus some gold earrings and a thin golden neck chain supporting a gold, heart-shaped photo locket. Sam left her cheaper silver jewelry behind.
The Last Shootist Page 26