Showdown at Hole-In-the-Wall

by Ralph Cotton

  “Yes,” said Glick, the grin still on his face, a wicked twinkle in his browless eyes. “You could say he shot out of there like a dart. I never saw a man leave in such a hurry.”

  “He—he left me?” Shala didn’t believe him. But she realized her situation. Without Stanley here, she was at Glick’s mercy unless she could think her way through this, take control and protect herself any way she could.

  “Yes . . . there’s no need in me sugarcoating it. He left you all alone.” Glick rode over closer and stepped down from his saddle. He looked dreamily into her eyes. “Except, you’re not alone. I’m with you, and I’ll look after you and protect you. The truth is you’re better off without that stupid young buck. What you need is a man . . . and I am at your service.”

  Shala caught a faint but horrible scent of burned flesh. “What I need is to know where my husband is,” she said firmly. She started to ask him what he’d done to Stanley, but that might be a bit too strong now, she thought. She knew Glick was capable of killing her without batting an eye. She needed to weigh every word, gain whatever she could for herself each time she opened her mouth.

  “We’ll talk more about Stanley in good time,” Glick said, reaching out and easily taking the rifle from her hands. What could she do but give it up? she asked herself. She could have shot him, but then how would she ever know where Stanley was, if he were dead or alive, if she would ever see him again. Feeling the rifle leave her hands, she told herself, You’re on your own now.

  As Glick took the rifle and cradled it in his left arm, he raised a pale hand to his wide hat brim. The cutoff black glove fingers made his skin appear all the more chalky-white and blue veined. “There now, that’s better.” His hand gesture brought her attention to the long, damp yellow hair hanging to his shoulders.

  Oh my God . . . She had to swallow hard to keep from retching at the sight of the yellow hair she’d seen earlier that evening on one of the dead men’s head. Glick had scalped him! Beneath the hairline a jagged line of fire-dried flesh showed across his pale forehead. She had to force herself to look away, lest Glick realize she was staring in repulsion. Although, what did he expect her to do? she asked herself.

  Was she supposed to notice the dead man’s scalp? Was she supposed to make a comment about it? She wasn’t sure. She had no idea what went on in the mind of a madman, and she was certain Glick the Dutchman was a long way from being sane.

  Now that Stanley wasn’t here, she had no idea how Glick would act or what he might do next. The only thing she was sure of was that she’d better be prepared for anything, and find out fast what it would take to keep this old predator at bay—at arm’s length, if she could. If not, she would find herself doing things with the old ghoul that would haunt, foul and sicken her for the rest of her life.

  “Now that Stanley boy has gotten into the wind, so to speak,” Glick said, grinning at his little secret joke, “I believe you’ll soon see that life is going to be better for both of us. I’m going to make you happy, young lady.”

  All right, here it comes, Shala told herself, seeing him step even closer to her. Don’t cower down from him. Take over, get the upper hand and keep it. She took a breath and calmed herself. “Do you promise?”

  “Oh Lord yes, I promise,” said Glick, a splotch of red coming to his pale, thin cheeks.

  “Because I don’t want you telling me you’ll make me happy if you can’t.” Shala jutted her large bosom a little, just enough to be noticed. “I’m a big, strong woman, Conning,” she said, emphasizing his first name. “Now that my husband isn’t listening, I can tell you, I have appetites that rage for attending. Do you understand?” She forced herself to offer a coy smile.

  “Oh yes, I understand.” His free hand clasped her wide shoulder and kneaded the firm muscle. “And I will make you happy,” said Glick. “Stanley boy treated you like some kind of heathen squaw. But I won’t. I’ve had a belly full of heathen squaws. I’m through with them. I want a proper woman, one that I can treat good, I mean real good, like a fine strapping woman wants to be treated. Don’t worry about your appetites. From now on you just let them appetites rage.”

  Shala stepped in against him, letting him feel the warm thrust of her body. “Good,” she said. Then before he could make another move, she stepped back and turned toward the fire. “I have some hot coffee, and some food ready to eat. Eat yourself a good meal, get your strength up. . . .” She let her words trail.

  “That sounds just real fine to me,” Glick said, even though her sudden assertiveness did take him aback just a little. He walked a few feet behind her, watching the sway of her broad, muscular hips in her snug-fitting trousers.

  At the fire, she stopped and turned and said in a firm tone, “Oh. Before you spread your blanket close to mine, get rid of that disgusting yellow hair and wash your head real good. All that nasty thing will do is get in our way. Besides, you can be yourself with me. I like a real man, not one who has to hide himself.”

  Disgusting hair? Hide himself . . . ? Glick stood staring at her. He didn’t get it. One minute she’d been warm to him, leading him on, giving him ideas. Now she didn’t like his scalp wig? What kind of woman was this? But as he looked at her closer, he knew what kind of woman this was. This was a big, buxom, beautiful woman, the kind he saw only in pictures hanging on saloon walls. This was what he’d really wanted from Stanley Lowden. To hell with shooting Memphis Beck for him, he thought. That wasn’t the important thing. What he’d really wanted all winter was Stanley’s young wife.

  All right then, what the hell, he told himself, rubbing his chin with a cold hand. He could do without the yellow hair, for tonight anyway . . . if that’s all it took to get what he wanted. He saw what she was doing. She wanted him, that was plain enough to see, he thought. But she wanted to take him over. Well, that was all right, that was what women did, take a man over.

  “Anything you say, young lady.” He managed a thin smile, reached up and peeled hat, scalp wig and all right off his hairless head. Let her think that’s what she’s doing, he told himself. For a woman like this, he could go along with a little foolishness. If she got too bad, too demanding, he’d pistol-whip her back into shape. Hell, he’d cut her tongue out if she got too bad. That always shut them up.

  After a meal of beans, heated elk jerky and two hot cups of coffee, Glick sat at the fire, his big bearskin coat propped open in front like the fly on a small tent, taking in the heat of the campfire. He batted his tired eyes to keep them open. It had been a long day. He almost wished he hadn’t made any promises about taking care of her “appetites,” as she’d called them. To be honest, he told himself, he’d like to just sit real still and let the fire reach deep inside his chest, his throbbing knees, his stiff hands. . . .

  Huh . . . ? “What’s that?” He jerked his head up and batted his eyes, feeling himself fall asleep.

  From the outer circle of firelight, Shala called out to him, “I said, it’s bedtime. I want you to join me now that you’ve gotten rid of the wig . . . you know, just the two of us?”

  “Jesus . . . ,” Glick whispered, batting his tired eyes even more at the sight of her. She stood naked, tall, broad and muscular, like some Roman statue he’d seen somewhere. She bathed herself slowly, with a cloth and warm water, steam rising from the rim of a wash pan at her feet. Glick actually felt his heart make a hard thump in his chest.

  “With Stanley gone, how do you like your prize?” Shala called out quietly to him. He looked her up and down. She looked even better than he had imagined her to look all these weeks when all he thought of night after night was her, just like this.

  “I like it just fine, young lady,” he said. “I can’t wait to join you.”

  “Then come ahead,” Shala invited him.

  “Why, hell yes, I will,” Glick said, his chest aching at the sight of her, his hands trembling. He stood up. He stared at her. “Whew . . .” He sat down. “Only, right now I need to do some figuring.”

  “Some fig
uring?” Shala said. She stooped down and wet the cloth and touched it to her cheek, her neck, her breasts. “What kind of figuring?”

  “Just figuring, you know, about these men we’re hunting. It takes some cool, calm thinking. It’s not something you can just jump out and do without thinking it out.”

  “All right, in a few minutes then,” said Shala, picking up her blanket. She wrapped it around herself and patted herself dry. “But don’t wait too long; I’m on fire.”

  “I won’t,” Glick replied, his voice sounding strange to him. “I’m on fire too, you know.”

  He sat staring into the flames, a stunned look on his face. What had happened? he asked himself. All that talk about what they were going to do, and when he stood up, he realized, he wasn’t about to do anything. His face was glowing warm, but his loins, his lower belly, where it all counted, were cold and without feeling. Damn, was he tired, he thought.

  He reached up and rubbed his bare, hairless head, feeling cold up there even sitting this close to the fire. His hat and the yellow scalp wig lay beside him, both items taking on a peculiar odor with the heat permeating them.

  Moments later, he’d finished another tin cup of coffee. He looked across the fire and watched Shala lie down and wrap her blanket around herself. “Are you coming yet?” she asked when she had been lying there for a few seconds. “I’m still on fire.”

  “Real soon,” Glick said, giving her a stare through the licking flames. All right, he thought, there she was, everything was just as it should be. Stanley was dead; there was nothing stopping him from having all he wanted of her—this big, warm, beautiful thing. But he gritted his teeth. Something wasn’t right. Something wouldn’t let him simply stand up, circle the fire and slide into the blanket with her. He felt sweat on his forehead, under his arms. Yet the top of his head was cold and clammy. Was it her size? Was he afraid he wouldn’t fill those appetites she talked about?

  A full ten minutes had passed when she said in the same quiet, seductive tone, “Conning, are you coming yet? I’m still on fire.”

  A silence passed. Then Glick said, “Say you’re on fire one more time, I’ll throw a bucket of water on you.”

  Shala made no reply. She lay quietly for a moment, then asked, “What happened to Stanley?”

  “That’s for me to know,” Glick said sharply. He stared at her through the flames. Finally he said, “We’ll talk more about him tomorrow, after I’ve rested some.”

  Shala nodded to herself. She knew she was safe for the night. She closed her eyes and allowed herself a light and cautious sleep, the crackle of fire resounding in the quiet of the night.

  It was the hour before dawn when Glick stood over her fully dressed, looking strong and fierce in his huge bearskin coat, his new yellow scalp wig back atop his head, beneath his wide-brimmed hat. “Wake up,” he said, nudging her with the toe of his boot. “We’ve got business to take care of.”

  Shala said, “Oh, I thought you were waking me up for a morning visit.” She forced herself to sound disappointed.

  “We’ll have to save all the fooling around for later,” Glick said. “Right now, we’ve got man hunting to do.” He turned and walked away toward the horses.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened to Stanley today?” Shala called out to him. But he neither answered nor looked back. Shala stared coldly at him. It doesn’t matter if you answer me or not, you son of a bitch. Every time I ask you something I learn a little bit more. . . .

  Once she knew where Stanley was and whether he was dead or alive, she would know what to do about Glick. If Stanley was dead, she would kill the Dutchman, plain and simple, she vowed to herself. An eye for an eye . . . She stood up and pulled the blanket from around herself. Glick knew it too, she decided, dropping the blanket to the ground and walking over to the smoldering campfire.

  “I cleaned your rifle, broke it down and stored it among the supplies,” Glick called back to her from the horses. He stared over at her with a sly grin on his pale, hairless face. “With me protecting you now, you won’t need to bother carrying it.”

  She started to say something, but decided to hold her tongue for now. She needed to bide her time. She could do that, she told herself, staring down at the warm, glowing embers. She had to. . . .

  PART 3

  Chapter 14

  Angelo Sabott and his men sat atop their horses, lined up along a ridge looking down on the Havelin Mining and Development Corporation. On his right sat Al Heakland. On his left sat a dull-eyed gun-fighter and former horse thief named Crazy Lou Ozlow. Crazy Lou wore his hat brim pulled low to cover two jagged initials, HT, that had been carved into his forehead years ago when he’d been caught plying his former trade.

  “Is everybody clear about how we’re going to handle this deal?” Sabott asked, staring straight ahead. The line of men stretched farther out along the ridgeline only nodded, staring down onto the mining complex. But Crazy Lou said in a thick, witless voice, “We ride in, kill everybody, then ride out. Right?”

  “Hell, no, Lou. You’re not even close,” said Sabott, letting out a breath.

  “Oh?”

  “This ain’t some kind of shoot-’em-up job, Lou,” said Heakland. “There’s no more than a couple or three people there anyway.”

  “Let me go over it again,” Sabott said, taking a breath, trying to stay patient. “I have word from a reliable source in Casper that there’s a lot of payroll money down there, all right?”

  “Got it,” said Ozlow. His expression turned curious. “Who said so?”

  “He just said a reliable source, damn it!” said Heakland, making no attempt at patience.

  “Never mind who,” said Sabott. “The same source told me there’d be nobody there today, except the man who runs the office.”

  “But who said so?” Ozlow asked again.

  “Jesus . . . ,” Heakland growled.

  “Forget it, Lou,” said Sabott. “Just stay by my side, do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. Have you got that?”

  Ozlow shrugged. “Sure, I got that.”

  “All right then,” Sabott said to Ozlow. To Heakland he said, “We’re going to try not to use our explosives on this job. We left a lot of the dynamite back there to close off the pass. I don’t want to be left short when we meet up with Bobby Zackarow and his boys.”

  “Sounds right to me, boss,” said Heakland. He gave Ozlow a dubious look and asked Sabott under his breath, “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Yeah, he’ll follow orders,” said Sabott. “That’s all I care about. . . .”

  From the dusty window of the Havelin Mining and Development Corporation, Wilbur Sage looked across the clearing, up at the ten riders lined along the ridge overlooking the wide basin. To the young office clerk at the desk behind him, he said, “Davey, have you sent or received any wires this morning?”

  “No sir, Mr. Sage, I haven’t,” the clerk replied, looking up from a column of figures in a ledger spread open on his desk. “Are you expecting something?” His thick glasses made his eyes appear twice their size. Leaning back in chairs against the wall, two guards with shotguns glanced at each other, then stood up and stepped toward the window.

  “Nothing in particular,” Sage replied to Lockhart. “Bring the telescope from the desk drawer and come over here.” To the two guards he said, “Farrel, you and Lindsey get over here too. All of you, tell me what you make of this.”

  What he made of it? “Yes, sir, Mr. Sage.” David Lockhart wasn’t used to being asked his opinion on anything. He pulled a drawer out and extracted a brass-trimmed telescope. He hurriedly closed the ledger with a page marker inside it, sprang from his chair and stepped beside his boss, passing the two guards in his haste.

  “Make of what, sir?” he asked. He handed Sage the telescope as he peered out the window and looked back and forth.

  The two guards stood back, but peeped around Sage and Lockhart, seeing the riders in the distance. “Oh hell,” whispered Lindsey
. The two gave each other a look.

  “Up there along the ridge, the riders, see them?” Sage gestured, stretching out the telescope and raising it to his eye. He adjusted it, looking out through the wavy window glass.

  “Oh, yes sir, I see them now,” said Lockhart, taking off his thick reading spectacles as he squinted a bit, eyeing the distant horsemen. “Who are they? What do you suppose they’re doing?” he asked, suspicion already aroused in his voice.

  “That’s what I want to know,” said Sage. “Check the machine, make sure it’s working. We might have trouble here.”

  “Yes, sir, right away,” said Lockhart. He turned and hurried to the small telegraph desk in the rear corner of the office. Sage stared back out at the distant ridgeline, hearing the tap-tap-tap of the telegraph machine behind him.

  “Farrel, you and Lindsey get out front where you can do some good. You’re all that stands between these men and the Havelin Mining and Development Corporation.”

  The two guards looked at each other again. “Let’s go,” said Phil Lindsey. They turned and hurried out the rear door.

  “No, you imbeciles!” Sage called out. “I said out front!” But the two men kept moving, out the rear door, to the livery barn, each to the respective stalls that housed their horses. Staring at the rear door after it had slammed shut, Sage shouted, “Then to hell with you both! You’re finished with Havelin Mining and Develop—”

  At the telegraph desk Lockhart cut Sage short, saying, “Sir, the machine’s not working.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” said Sage. “They’ve cut our wires.” Without taking the telescope from his eye, he stiffened. “Uh-oh, this looks bad.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Lockhart asked.

  “I recognize one of these fellows. He’s a real bad egg named Angelo Sabott,” said Sage.

  “I’ve heard of him, sir!” said Lockhart. Stepping back beside Sage, Lockhart added, “Sir, you don’t think they’re going to . . .” He didn’t finish his words. But he didn’t need to.