Deadly Day in Tombstone

by William W. Johnstone

  “Why? They’re . . . they’re both dead, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, but the one who was takin’ potshots at us from the rocks up there isn’t. Chances are he’s runnin’ back to the rest of his bunch right now, and he’ll tell them where to find us.”

  “You think there are more of them?”

  “I’d bet a hat on it,” Stonewall said grimly. “That’s why we can’t stay here. If they’re gonna kill us, I want them to at least have to hunt for us first.”

  Corbett swallowed, and it was audible in the pre-dawn gloom. “You think they’re going to kill us?”

  “Maybe that’s not why they broke off the reservation in the first place, but they sure made a grab for it in a hurry once they got the chance. And since we did for two of them . . .”

  He didn’t have to say anything else.

  Corbett said, “Let’s get the horses saddled.”

  While they were getting ready to break camp, the sky grew brighter still. Stonewall glanced at the man he had clubbed with the gun. There was enough light now for him to see the deep depression in the Apache’s temple. The desperate blow had shattered the man’s skull.

  It wasn’t the first man he had killed. He had been part of several running fights with rustlers while the Howell family was bringing their herd from New Mexico Territory to Arizona, and he was pretty sure he had shot a couple wide-loopers out of their saddles.

  But he didn’t have the lives of many men on his conscience, and this was the first one he had taken close up, where he could see the dead man’s face. It wasn’t a pretty feeling, even though the Apache had been trying hard to kill him.

  He did his best to shove that out of his mind and reached for his Winchester, which was still lying on the ground where he had dropped it when the Indian jumped him.

  A sharp voice made him stop short.

  “Just leave it layin’ right there, Stonewall,” the man ordered, “and straighten back up real slow like.”

  Stonewall’s heart thudded. He knew that voice.

  * * *

  The sound of gunfire could travel a long way, especially at night, but as Dallin listened to the shots he could tell they weren’t far off. Half a mile, maybe.

  The shooting made Jessie clutch at him again. “What is that?”

  Dallin had heard a revolver go off—maybe more than one—and the cracking of a rifle, as well. That meant a skirmish of some sort. Nobody fired that many shots if they were just hunting. Besides, it was still too dark for that, although the gray in the eastern sky was a harbinger of dawn.

  “Somebody’s got a fight on their hands. Could be Indians, I suppose. I ain’t heard of any bronco Apaches bein’ on the warpath lately, but I been sort of otherwise occupied with my own problems.”

  “You mean Apaches fighting with each other?”

  “Naw, more likely they jumped somebody who was camped hereabouts . . .” Dallin’s voice trailed off as the implications of what he was saying soaked into him. It could just as easily been him and Jessie the Apaches jumped, if that was actually what happened. He was putting her life in danger by having her in the rugged mountains.

  And not just her life, either, but the unborn one inside her.

  In his desperation, he had run risks that seemed completely unacceptable to him. No matter what happened to him, he had to go back to Tombstone and take Jessie with him.

  Assuming they survived that long.

  “You mean they attacked some whites?” Jessie asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  “Yeah, that could be what happened—”

  “Then my father and the men who came with him could be in danger.”

  That idea hadn’t occurred to Dallin until she said it, but he knew she was right. It was certainly possible Little Ed and his punchers had been mixed up in that fracas. In fact, that was the most likely explanation.

  “Sounds like the shootin’s stopped. I’m sure everybody’s all right—”

  “You can’t be sure about that. You can’t be sure at all.” Her voice rose a little as a note of hysteria edged into it. “My father could be lying out there dead right now for all we know.”

  “If Little Ed followed us into the mountains, he would’ve brought a good-sized bunch with him. He’s bound to be fine—”

  “We have to go see.”

  “What?” Dallin stared at her in the gray light. “You want us to go traipsin’ over to where all that shootin’ was on the off chance that your pa was mixed up in it?”

  “We have to,” Jessie insisted. She drew in a deep breath. “If it’s him, I’ll do what you want, Dallin. I’ll tell him the truth. But I have to make sure he’s not hurt.”

  Dallin narrowed his eyes in thought. What she proposed sounded like a workable bargain, one that might even clear his name. But there were considerable risks, too, not the least of which was that a band of renegade Apaches might be roaming around the area. That could be very bad news indeed.

  For that matter, if he came face to face with Little Ed McCabe, the rancher might kill him before Jessie had time to intervene and tell the truth. Or she might double-cross him and stick to her story, although he considered that unlikely.

  “You give me your solemn word you’ll tell your pa the truth?”

  “My solemn word,” she said.

  He had to take the chance. It might be the best one he’d ever have. “All right, let’s go. I’ll get the horse saddled up.”

  A few minutes later, they were riding slowly in the direction of the gunfire. Dallin had the gun in his right hand as he held the reins with his left. Jessie rode in front of him, swaying against him as she rocked back and forth from the motion of the horse.

  That wasn’t a bad feeling, Dallin thought then immediately tried to put it out of his mind. The girl had accused him of just about the most awful thing she could have, and she had done it knowing that the charge wasn’t true.

  Not only that, but she also had another man’s child growing inside her. A man would have to be plumb loco to start having tender feelings toward a gal in that situation.

  It also didn’t take into account the fact that they might run smack-dab into a war party of bloodthirsty Apaches at any moment. Or a bunch of angry cowboys bent on stringing him up.

  When he thought they had to be getting close to where the shooting had taken place, Dallin reined in and whispered to Jessie, “Slide down. You’ll have to hang on to the horse while I go ahead on foot.”

  “I want to come with you,” she whispered back.

  “Not until we know what we’re dealin’ with. Can I trust you to stay here and not try to run off ?”

  “I’ll stay here,” she promised. “But be careful, Dallin.”

  “That’s what I’m plannin’.” He didn’t like leaving her unarmed and defenseless. He looked at her in the growing light. She was scared and exhausted. Her clothes were rumpled from sleeping on the crude pine needle bed, and her hair was a tangled mess.

  He thought she sure was pretty.

  Again, he had to force his mind back to the problem at hand. He gave her a nod, then started working his way through the rocks that littered the mountainside.

  He stopped every few moments to listen, and after he’d done that a couple times he heard voices not far off. Two men were talking.

  With every bit of stealth he could muster, Dallin drew closer. He came to the edge of a bluff and looked down. He saw that the two men had camped there, but were saddled up and ready to break camp.

  Two dark, motionless shapes on the ground told the grim story of what had happened. A pair of Apaches had jumped the men and died for their trouble.

  The two white men were moving their camp in case any more renegades were around.

  It came as no surprise to Dallin that he recognized both men, although they weren’t who he had expected. One was a fella who worked in the general store in town. Dallin couldn’t remember his name, but he had seen the man in the store plenty of times.

  The other
hombre was his old pard, Deputy Stonewall Jackson Howell . . . and he was about to pick up a rifle lying nearby on the ground.

  Dallin had seen indisputable proof that Apaches were roaming around in the Santa Catalinas, and that meant Jessie was in more danger than ever before. He needed help to get her back to safety, and it was right in front of him . . . if he could convince Stonewall to listen to him.

  He didn’t really think about what he was doing. As Stonewall reached for the rifle, Dallin pointed the Colt down at the deputy even though he had no intention of using it as anything except a bluff. “Just leave it layin’ right there, Stonewall, and straighten back up real slow like.”

  Chapter 23

  Arabella told herself she was being unreasonable; she had no claim on Steve Drake’s affections. He was free to indulge his appetites and do whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted.

  But a brazen hussy like Copper Farris . . . ?

  Arabella had thought better of her old friend and mentor than that.

  She prided herself on her ability to put her emotions aside and think clearly and levelheadedly when she sat down at a poker table, and that was exactly what she did that night as the tournament got underway again. At least, it was what she attempted to do.

  She wasn’t sure she was completely successful. She noticed that she was playing a bit more recklessly and ruthlessly than usual, pushing her raises a little higher, bluffing a little longer, generally putting as much pressure as possible on the other players at her table.

  It seemed to be working, too. As the pace of the game accelerated, the size of the pots grew. One by one, the players at Arabella’s table were forced into making larger bets than they might have otherwise, and when luck deserted them, they didn’t have the reserves to recover. They had to drop out.

  Finally, she and the mild-mannered Donald Lockard were the only ones remaining in the game. Jim Snyder and J.D. Burnett stayed at the table to watch after they folded for the last time, while Wade Cunningham had shoved back his chair, bid them all good luck and good night, and headed for the bar.

  Arabella had the deal. As she shuffled, she glanced over at the table where Drake was still playing. Copper was no longer in the game, she noticed. She had been concentrating on her own cards so much she was unaware of when the redhead had dropped out of the tournament.

  But in all honesty, Arabella had to admit a part of her was glad to see that Copper no longer had a chance of winning. The redhead’s lack of success came as no surprise; She had never been that good.

  The other tables were down to two or three players, as well. The night had been brutal.

  And it had taken most of the night, Arabella realized. She didn’t know what time it was, but a glance out the front windows of the Top-Notch revealed the gray light of approaching dawn. They had been playing all night, and she hadn’t even noticed the passage of time.

  One more night might finish off the tournament, including the final showdown match with Morris Upton.

  Win or lose, she was ready for it to be over. The excitement she had felt going into the big game was gone. She was left with a sour taste in her mouth.

  “Five card draw,” she announced as she began dealing the hand.

  Luck didn’t smile on her. When she checked her cards she had a four, a five, a nine, a ten, and a jack. Her best possible hand was a straight. The odds of filling it didn’t support a big bet. If Lockard opened for very much, she thought, she would fold quickly.

  But Lockard’s bet was small, so Arabella stayed in. She looked at her cards again. Her best play was to throw away the four and five and try to fill the higher straight.

  After Lockard took two cards, a sudden impulse made her do something completely out of character. She threw in the nine, ten, and jack. Her mouth quirked a little as she defied the odds. She could always fold after the draw.

  Then she dealt herself a two, a three, and a six.

  There was her straight. Only six high, but it would be enough to beat quite a few hands.

  Lockard didn’t appear to be all that confident in his hand. He made another small bet.

  Of course, there was always the chance that he was trying to sucker her. Arabella saw the bet and raised it, but not by much. He returned the favor.

  Small bets could add up fairly quickly. As the pot grew, Arabella thought he might fold, but he continued raising stubbornly. She asked herself how confident she was that he was trying to bluff her. She discovered that she wasn’t confident at all and considered dropping out herself.

  But if she did, she would suffer a significant loss. Not enough to wipe her out; she still had enough money that she would be able to continue. But it would put her in a precarious position where she couldn’t afford to lose another hand.

  She had never been a reckless player, but something drove her on. Maybe it was the fact that Drake was a dozen feet away from her and she felt his eyes on her from time to time, watching her.

  He had taught her to be cautious . . . and look where that had gotten her.

  She saw Lockard’s bet and raised it.

  He thought about it for a long moment. She couldn’t read anything in his bland, expressionless face.

  “I think I’m all in,” he finally said as he pushed the last of his money into the center of the table. “You can cover that, can’t you, Lady Arabella?”

  “I can. And I call.”

  He smiled before he laid down his hand, and for a second she thought he had succeeded in tricking her. His cards were good, too. He placed them on the table and said, “Three aces.”

  Arabella put her cards down one at a time. Her unruffled demeanor and deliberate movements told him all he needed to know by the third card.

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It’s yours, milady. Well played.”

  Cheers went up from the spectators as they realized that Arabella had emerged as the first table winner. She smiled and gathered in her winnings.

  All she had to do was wait and see who would join her in the bigger game. It wouldn’t be Copper Farris, but she might still see Drake across the table from her.

  She didn’t know whether to dread the possibility . . . or look forward to it.

  * * *

  Oscar Grayson, Jed Muller, and Max Rourke had all been forced out of the tournament, which didn’t come as a real surprise to any of the three men despite Muller’s bravado and Rourke’s arrogant confidence. They all knew they weren’t at the same level as many of the other players.

  Grayson and Muller were at the bar, watching the games. After Lady Arabella Winthrop won the deciding hand at her table, Grayson nudged his companion in the side and said quietly, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Muller put his empty beer mug on the bar and nodded.

  Grayson caught the eye of Rourke, who was alone at a table on the other side of the big room, and angled his head toward the entrance. Rourke’s lean, hatchet-like face remained as expressionless as a stone, as usual. Grayson didn’t know if the man would take the hint or not.

  He hoped that Rourke would. The tournament’s first round was on the verge of being over. It might not take many more hands to crown winners at the other three tables. If that turned out to be the case, it was possible the big showdown could occur in less than twenty-four hours.

  They needed to be ready to strike as soon as the champion of the tournament was facing Morris Upton across the table with a fortune between them.

  As he and Muller left the Top-Notch, Grayson thought about all that money—piles of greenbacks and stacks of double eagles that he would sweep off the table and into a canvas bag while Rourke was dealing with Upton’s guards.

  What Rourke didn’t know was that Grayson wasn’t going to wait for him. He was going to be out the back door and gone before Rourke had a chance to catch up. Just to make sure that double cross was successful, Muller would have only two horses waiting in the alley—one for Grayson and one for himself.

  Max Rourke would be staying
behind to take the blame. Grayson was counting on Upton or one of his men to kill Rourke for his part in the robbery. If Rourke got away, he would come looking for the two men who had betrayed him. Grayson sure as hell didn’t want that.

  No man with any sense would want a loco killer like Max Rourke on his trail, so it was a big chance to take.

  It would be worth the risk if the gamble paid off. And then later, when they were safely south of the border, Muller wouldn’t be expecting a bullet in the back of the head...

  “What’re you grinnin’ about?” Muller asked, breaking into Grayson’s murderous chain of thought.

  “Oh, just thinking about what I’m going to do with my share of the money.”

  That was true enough. Muller didn’t have to know that Grayson intended for his share to be . . . all of it.

  Rourke came up behind them as they ambled along the boardwalk. Grayson didn’t even know the man was there until he said, “All right. What was it you wanted?”

  Grayson tried not to jump in surprise. He didn’t want the other two to see how much Rourke had spooked him. He turned around. “We need to sit down and figure out the rest of the details. The big finish could come tonight.”

  “All right,” Rourke said. “My room at the hotel.”

  Neither thought about arguing. You didn’t argue with Max Rourke, not if you wanted to stay alive.

  It was almost dawn as they walked into the hotel. The lobby was empty, but a few people were in the dining room getting some early morning coffee.

  Grayson spotted Sheriff John Slaughter sitting at a table by himself, thumbing through a copy of the Tombstone Epitaph. He didn’t even glance in their direction, which Grayson thought was a good thing.

  The plan was risky enough without attracting the attention of Cochise County’s tough-as-nails sheriff.

  They went up to Rourke’s room and spent the next half hour going over every detail they could think of, from the locations where Muller would place the dynamite to the place where he would be waiting with the horses when Grayson and Rourke fled out the back of the Top-Notch. The more they talked about it, the more Grayson was convinced that it would work.