He didn’t wake up until noon in the squalid hotel on Sixth Street where he was staying. It was one step above a flophouse, but at least he only had to share his bed with fleas and not another guest. He couldn’t afford one of the second-floor rooms at the Top-Notch or at a better hotel.
He threw back the grimy sheets and sat up in bed to scrub a hand over his face. His palm rasped against the beard stubble on his jaw. He sighed, then let out a startled exclamation as he realized he wasn’t alone after all.
A man sat across the room in the lone, rickety chair and pointed a gun at him.
A .22 caliber Colt Open Top pocket revolver lay on the little table beside the bed. Grayson’s eyes darted toward it, but his hand didn’t make a move. The gun in the other man’s hand was rock-steady, and Grayson knew the unwelcome visitor could drill him before he reached the little pistol.
“That’s pretty smart of you, Oscar,” Steve Drake said. “I figured you’d think about making a try for that little toy, but I wasn’t worried. That’s why I left it there.”
Grayson’s mouth twisted in a snarl. In a voice hoarse from sleep, he said, “What the hell do you want, Drake?”
“Just thought I’d pay you a visit and renew our old acquaintance.”
The air in the room was stifling and Grayson felt sweat springing out under his arms, but Drake looked cool as could be.
“Wichita was where we last saw each other, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“You know damned good and well it was.”
“Your old pard Muller is here, too. I thought I spotted both of you in the Top-Notch last night, so I asked around and made sure of it. It wasn’t hard to find you, Oscar.”
“I don’t need to hide from the likes of a tinhorn like you,” Grayson declared with a sneer and some forced bravado that he didn’t really feel.
Drake laughed. “That’s pretty rich, you calling someone else a tinhorn. You can’t win at poker without cheating. I doubt if you could win at solitaire.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I always play an honest game.”
That statement brought another laugh from Drake. Then amusement vanished from his face. “I thought about warning Morris Upton about you and Muller. But Upton can look out for himself. To be honest, I don’t have much more use for him than I do for the two of you.” He leaned forward, and cold menace glittered like ice in his pale blue eyes. “So I’m here to give you a warning instead, Grayson. This tournament is important to some of us. You’d be wise not to try anything funny. And if you happen to find yourself sitting at the same table as Lady Winthrop, you’d better be on your best behavior. If there’s even a hint that you’re trying to cheat her, I’ll kill you. Simple as that.”
“You’re full of big talk,” Grayson said.
“I can back it up.”
That was the thing, Grayson thought. He probably could. Steve Drake had killed three or four men in shootings over card tables, and that was just the last Grayson had heard. The Virginian’s score might be even higher.
“You’ve got me all wrong, Drake.” Grayson struggled to keep a whining note out of his voice. “I don’t work with Muller anymore.”
“I saw the two of you together last night.”
Grayson shrugged. “What can I say? We’re old friends. He comes over to have a drink with me, I’m not going to tell him to leave. But we’re not partners, and I play the game fair and square now. That’s the truth, whether you believe me or not.”
Drake cocked his head to the side a little. “You know, I almost do believe you, Oscar. But I know what a talented liar you are. It comes to you almost as naturally as breathing.” He stood up, but the gun in his hand didn’t waver. “I’ve said my piece. You’re on notice.”
“I’m just here in Tombstone to play poker. That’s all.”
Drake grunted. He backed to the door, reached behind him with his free hand, and opened it. He didn’t lower the gun or take his attention off Grayson until he was in the corridor and closed the door behind him.
Grayson looked at his pistol again and wondered if he could grab it, charge out there, and take his old enemy by surprise before Drake reached the stairs.
That was doubtful, he decided. Knowing Steve Drake, he was probably waiting in the hall for him to try something reckless. Grayson wasn’t going to play right into his hands.
He got up and pulled on his clothes, then left the hotel to look for Muller.
* * *
He had to search through several saloons before he found the big man lounging against the bar in the Oriental nursing a beer.
“What’s wrong, Oscar?” Muller asked. “You look like you got a hungry wolf on your trail.”
“Almost that bad,” Grayson said as he motioned for the bartender to bring him a drink despite the fact that it was barely noon. “Drake spotted us in the Top-Notch last night.”
Muller frowned. “So what? We got as much right to be in Tombstone as he does.” The frown deepened as something occurred to him. “He don’t know anything about what you were talkin’ to me about, does he?”
Grayson shook his head. He picked up the drink the bartender set in front of him and tossed it back. The whiskey hit like a rock in his empty stomach. There was a good reason some people called the stuff rotgut.
After a moment, he was able to draw a little strength from the fiery stuff and welcomed it.
“No, I don’t see how he could know anything about that,” Grayson said in answer to Muller’s question. “He just warned me not to try to cheat in the tournament, especially if I’m in the same game as the Winthrop woman.”
“Sweet on her, ain’t he?”
Grayson slid the empty glass across the hardwood. “They’re old friends.”
“I wouldn’t mind bein’ old friends with her, if you know what I mean,” Muller said with a leer.
Grayson shook his head. “She’d never give the likes of us the time of day. She acts like she’s doing us a big favor just by sitting down at a poker table with us.” Anger and resentment stirred in his brain like snakes coiling on a hot rock as he thought about Lady Arabella Winthrop. “One of these days I’d like to teach her not to be so high and mighty. Right now, though, I’m more interested in the money. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m not sure we can pull this off by ourselves, Jed.”
“You want to bring somebody else in on the plan? Who?”
“Rourke is in town.”
Muller’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “Max Rourke? He’s loco as he can be!”
“I know,” Grayson said as he nodded slowly. “And that might be just what we need.”
* * *
Stonewall took off his hat and fanned himself with it, but it didn’t do much good. He was still so hot he felt like his brain was baking inside his head. What he needed, he thought, was a nice cool root cellar where he could catch a nap. There was one on the ranch in the San Bernardino Valley.
Unfortunately he was working, not to mention being a long way from the ranch. He walked along Fremont Street and thought that it was almost hot enough to burn himself on the metal of the rifle he carried.
He paused in front of Schieffelin Hall to wipe his face. The meeting hall was named after Ed Schieffelin, the prospector who had founded Tombstone almost a decade earlier, and had been built by Ed’s brother Al. Several old-timers were sitting in rocking chairs in front of the impressive two-story adobe structure, taking advantage of what little shade they could find.
“Howdy, Deputy,” one of them greeted Stonewall. “Still got your prisoner over there in jail?”
“Of course we do,” Stonewall replied. “Where else would a prisoner be?”
“Well, I don’t know,” the lanky old man drawled. “From the talk I been hearin’ around town, I figured maybe he was decoratin’ the limb of some cottonwood tree by now.”
The man’s elderly cronies slapped their thighs and cackled with laughter over that comment like it was the funniest thing they had ever heard.
<
br /> Stonewall didn’t find it the least bit amusing. “Who did you hear talking about lynching Dallin?” he asked sharply.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the old-timer replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Wouldn’t tell you if I did. And don’t think I didn’t notice the way you referred to that scoundrel by his given name, Deputy. You and him are friends, ain’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“But Williams used to ride for John Slaughter.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t anymore,” Stonewall pointed out. “And it wouldn’t matter if he did. Sheriff Slaughter enforces the law fair and square, no matter who somebody is.”
“Hmmph,” the old man said. “That ain’t the way it looks to me. I didn’t vote for the man, and I don’t blame folks for not trustin’ him to see that justice is done.”
Stonewall struggled to rein in the anger that welled up inside him, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Why, you old coot! I ought to—”
“Ought to what? Arrest me for speakin’ the truth? Is that how John Slaughter’s deputies do things now? You don’t agree with the sheriff and you go to jail?”
Stonewall wasn’t sure how this conversation had turned so hostile and become an ugly confrontation instead, but he realized that several people who’d been passing by in the street had stopped to watch and listen.
He didn’t want to do anything to embarrass his boss and brother-in-law. With an effort, he was able to keep his voice calm and steady as he said, “Nobody here is getting arrested. You just need to stop accusing the sheriff of things that aren’t true. Nobody works harder to see that the law’s enforced fairly and impartially than Sheriff Slaughter.”
“Well, you’d say that, wouldn’t you,” the old-timer responded with a sneer, “since he’s married to your sister.”
Stonewall saw that there was no way he was going to come out ahead in this argument. “You’re entitled to your own opinion, mister. I reckon most folks in Tombstone know what they can expect from the sheriff.”
“I reckon they do. That’s why they’re talkin’ about takin’ the law into their own hands.”
Stonewall didn’t say anything else. He just walked on down the street with the heat from the brassy sky pounding on his head like a hammer. If things were bad enough that the old codgers in front of Schiffelin Hall were talking about a lynching, there must be a real danger of it, he thought. When he got back to the courthouse and the sheriff’s office from the turn around town, he probably ought to tell his brother-in-law about it. John probably already knew, but it wouldn’t hurt to apprise him of how the sentiment was running in town.
The heat might make it worse, too. By nightfall, folks would be primed to explode, and it wouldn’t take much of a spark to set off the blast.
It had already been a long day, but Stonewall suspected the coming night would be even longer.
Chapter 9
Slaughter looked around the sheriff’s office at the men assembled there late that afternoon.
They were a pretty salty bunch, he thought. Stonewall, Burt Alvord, Mose Tadrack, Jeff Milton, G.W. Farrington, Viola’s and Stonewall’s cousin Tommy Howell, Enoch Shattuck, and a lean, hawk-faced, middle-aged Mexican named Lorenzo Paco who was maybe the best tracker in the whole territory.
All of them had worn deputy badges for Slaughter at different times in the past, and although most of them weren’t working full-time for Cochise County anymore, they had all responded without hesitation when he’d called on them for help. It was the sort of loyalty he inspired, and he was proud of that fact.
“Thank you all for being here,” Slaughter began. “You know why I asked you all to come in. There’s a lot of talk in town about taking a prisoner out of here and hanging him.”
“You’re talkin’ about Dallin Williams, aren’t you, John?” Tommy asked.
Slaughter frowned at the informality. It was true that Tommy was a relative by marriage, but law enforcement required a certain decorum. That was one reason he wasn’t the jailer anymore; he was more happy-go-lucky and carefree than Stonewall.
When Tommy had worked there full-time, he had not only allowed Mexican prisoners to play their guitars and sing, he had encouraged it and joined in the festivities. He had let their favorite señoritas in to visit, as well, and as a result the place often had been more like a fandango than a jail.
“That’s right, Deputy Howell,” Slaughter said with a frown. He hoped Tommy would catch the hint that a little more solemnity would be appreciated.
“I ain’t sayin’ he deserves to be hanged, but he’s sure been ridin’ high, wide, and handsome through all the womenfolk in the county for a long time.”
“That’s totally irrelevant,” Slaughter said, aware that he sounded more like the judge than the sheriff. “He’s charged with a particular crime, and that’s our only business. We’re going to keep him safe to stand trial on that charge.” His cool-eyed gaze went from man to man. “If any of you don’t agree with that, you can leave right now and no one will hold it against you.”
That wasn’t strictly true. He’d hold it against anybody who decided to rabbit, although he wouldn’t admit that.
“Shoot, John—I mean, Sheriff—nobody wants to run out on you,” Tommy said. “We’re here to help, whatever you need. Ain’t that right, boys?”
Nods and mutters of agreement came from the assembled deputies.
“All right,” Slaughter said. “There are eight of you, so you’re going to split up into four pairs. One pair will always be posted here at the jail, one pair off-duty, and the other two circulating through the town. You’ll operate in two-hour shifts. I don’t care how you pair up or who does what first, as long as things are set up that way. Is that understood?”
“You can count on us, Sheriff,” Burt said.
“If you run into trouble and need help, three shots will be the signal,” Slaughter went on. “Someone should always be fairly close by. I’m planning to spend most of the night making the rounds of town myself.”
“Shouldn’t you have somebody with you, Sheriff?” Stonewall suggested. “I thought the reason you paired us up like this was so that no one man would be out there in the line of fire by himself.”
“We don’t know that there’ll be a line of fire,” Slaughter pointed out. “I’m hoping that all the reckless talk is just that—talk. Spouting off in a saloon is a lot easier than facing a gun in the hands of a man who’s prepared to use it.” He smiled. “Besides, I can take care of myself.”
None of the deputies were going to argue with the sheriff about that.
“All right,” Slaughter went on after a moment. “Go get yourselves some supper and get ready for a long night. I’ll hold down the fort here for the time being.”
The deputies filed out of the office and left the courthouse. When they were gone, Slaughter went over to the cell block door, unlocked it, and went inside.
Dallin Williams sat on the bunk in his cell with his hands clasped between his knees. His shoulders were hunched and his head hung down in a posture of despair. He didn’t look up when Slaughter’s footsteps echoed from the stone floor.
“Your supper will be brought over in a little while, Williams,” Slaughter said.
“It don’t matter. I ain’t hungry.”
“You have to eat. No prisoner in my jail goes hungry.”
“I just told you I don’t want anything, Sheriff.” Williams unclasped his hands and rested them on his knees. They gripped tightly. He began to rock backward and forward a little.
“I don’t have no appetite when I’m locked up like this. I can’t stand it, Sheriff. I just can’t stand it. Havin’ all these walls and bars around me, they start to close in on me. It . . . it makes me go a mite loco, I think.”
“Everybody feels like that when they’re locked up. You’ll get used to it.”
Williams’ head swung slowly from side to side. “I don’t think I will,” he said quietly without looking at Slaugh
ter. “I just don’t think so.”
Slaughter suppressed the irritation he felt. He wanted to tell Williams that if he didn’t like the idea of being locked up, he shouldn’t have attacked Jessie McCabe.
But that charge hadn’t been proven yet, Slaughter reminded himself. He didn’t see how it could be. There was no real evidence one way or the other.
The jury would just have to decide whether they believed Jessie or Williams.
Slaughter had a pretty good hunch whose story they were more likely to accept. If Williams had a hard time being locked up in the county jail for a week, he really wasn’t going to like it when he was sent to prison for twenty or twenty-five years . . . or the rest of his life.
“Your supper will be here,” Slaughter said again. “Whether you eat it or not is up to you.”
He left the cell block and locked the heavy wooden door behind him. He heard Williams muttering on the other side of the door but couldn’t make out the words. He recognized the sound of desperation in the prisoner’s voice, though.
* * *
Stonewall’s cousin Tommy had asked to be his partner, but Stonewall figured the sheriff wouldn’t want the two of them working together. For one thing, they were both young, and for another, Tommy needed a steady hand to keep him in line. Stonewall had suggested that Tommy work with Lorenzo Paco. There was nobody steadier than Paco.
After grabbing some supper at the hash house, Stonewall was on his way back toward the jail when he heard someone behind him call his name. He paused on the boardwalk and turned to see a young, dark-haired man in canvas trousers and a work shirt coming toward him. The man also wore a canvas apron over his shirt.
Stonewall recognized Roy Corbett, who worked in one of the general stores.
“Howdy, Roy.” During the time Stonewall had been in Tombstone serving as a deputy, he and Corbett had become friends. They were about the same age, and Corbett had been a cowboy at one time, too.
It didn’t make sense to Stonewall that somebody would give up a job like cowboying to work inside in a store all day, but despite his youth he had already learned that it took all kinds of folks to make up the world.
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