Deadly Day in Tombstone

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, that was a pretty good guess, wasn’t it?”

  “Her death was all Rourke’s doing, not ours. I guess Drake was investigating because he wanted to protect Lady Arabella. He didn’t want her blamed for the murder.” Grayson sighed. “Now we’ve got a real problem on our hands.”

  “I don’t see how,” Muller said. “We’ll just kill Drake and hide his body. Chances are nobody will find it until after we’re got our hands on that money and rattled our hocks out of Tombstone.” He spat on the floor, the kind of crude gesture that nobody would notice in such a place. “I wish I hadn’t missed him the first time I made a try for him.”

  “It was you who tried to shoot him from that alley?”

  “Who else? You didn’t think I was gonna let him get away with what he did in Wichita, did you? I was willing to forget about settling that score once you came up with your plan, but luck’s dumped the chance to get rid of him right back in my lap.” Muller picked up Grayson’s gun, thumbed back the hammer, and pointed it at Drake’s face.

  “Wait!” Grayson cried as an idea occurred to him. “A gunshot will draw attention. Use that blackjack of yours and beat him to death with it. You can bust his skull with a few blows. Nobody will hear that.”

  Muller tossed the gun back on the bed and grinned. “I’ve always liked the way you think, Oscar.” He took the blackjack out of his coat pocket again and stepped closer to his intended victim.

  Drake’s leg shot up with blinding speed and the heel of his boot crashed into Muller’s groin. Muller screamed and doubled over. Drake lunged for the gun he had dropped.

  Panic gripped Grayson. Drake could have heard Muller confess everything . . . and the Virginian was going for his gun.

  Grayson grabbed his pistol from the bed. The .22 cracked wickedly as flame lanced from its barrel. Drake grunted and rolled over as the bullet dug into his left shoulder. His hand slapped down on his gun and lifted it. He rolled again and brought up the revolver.

  The pair of explosions was deafening in the little room. Grayson felt the double impact as the slugs from Drake’s gun pounded into his chest and drove him backward. The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and made him sit. He perched there, swaying slightly as blood pumped from the wounds. His vision began to blur, but he could still see Muller struggle to his knees, surge upright, and lunge for the door.

  Drake twisted on the floor and fired again. The bullet missed and chewed splinters from the jamb as Muller careened into the hallway.

  “Not . . . fair.” More blood trickled from the corner of Grayson’s mouth as he hunched forward against the growing pain. “I just wanted to . . . win for a change.”

  He toppled forward off the edge of the bed, dead by the time he hit the grimy floor.

  * * *

  Jed Muller wasn’t at the Top-Notch or any of the other saloons Slaughter checked. He had a description of the man furnished by Pete Yardley, so he moved on to the hotels. He didn’t know where Muller was staying, but there were only so many places in Tombstone he could be.

  Slaughter needed to locate that dynamite, too. That much explosive stored in one place represented a danger he didn’t want in his town.

  Muller wasn’t at the American Hotel or any of the better hostelries. Slaughter headed on to the ones that weren’t so nice. By the time he reached a rundown, one-story adobe hotel far out on Safford Street, he was running out of patience.

  The bald, gangling man who ran the place was dressed in a pair of stained corduroy trousers and a heavily sweated union suit. He acted like a half-wit and didn’t seem to know anything, but Slaughter wondered if that was just a clever pose.

  “No, I ain’t seen nobody like that, mister,” the man was saying when shots suddenly erupted from the corridor where the rooms were located. The proprietor dived behind the registration desk, out of the line of fire, while Slaughter swung toward the hall and drew his pearl-handled Colt.

  A man staggered out of one of the rooms and started toward him. He seemed to be in pain.

  Slaughter felt a shock of recognition go through him as he realized the man matched Jed Muller’s description. “Muller! Hold it right there!”

  Muller’s eyes widened, but he didn’t slow down. He lowered his head and crashed into Slaughter, knocking the lawman over backward. The collision jolted the gun out of Slaughter’s hand.

  Muller tried to scramble past him, but Slaughter twisted and grabbed the bigger man’s ankle. Muller spilled onto the ratty rug in the middle of the lobby.

  Slaughter went after him and landed with his knees in the middle of Muller’s back. He clubbed his hands together and slammed them into the back of Muller’s head. The blow pounded Muller’s face into the floor.

  The gambler went limp. Slaughter had knocked him out cold.

  A footstep behind him made Slaughter look around for his gun. As he scooped it up from the floor where he had dropped it, he saw a familiar figure stumbling toward him.

  Steve Drake had his right hand pressed to his body just under his left shoulder. Crimson oozed between his fingers.

  “Drake!” Slaughter said. “What are you doing here? What is all this?”

  “Madness, Sheriff. But there’s a method to it, of sorts.” Drake nodded toward the unconscious Muller. “There’s the man who shot at me and Bella from that alley. I heard him admit it while I was shamming unconsciousness. But that’s not all. He and a man named Grayson and another man named Rourke were mixed up in some sort of robbery scheme. From what I heard, I think they were going after the pot in the final showdown at the Top-Notch tonight.”

  “Good Lord,” Slaughter muttered. “I knew Upton and his loco ideas were going to cause trouble. Where are Grayson and Rourke?”

  “Grayson’s back there.” Drake jerked his head toward the open door of one of the rooms. “He’s dead. We shot it out, and he gave me this.” Drake nodded at his wounded shoulder. “I put two in his chest.”

  Slaughter had gotten to his feet. He nodded grimly. “Reckon you didn’t have any choice.”

  “That’s not all, Sheriff. Copper Farris was spying on them, trying to find out what they were up to so she could cut herself in on it, and they caught her. Max Rourke killed her.”

  “Where’s Rourke now?”

  Drake shook his head. He was starting to look pretty pale from shock and loss of blood. “I have no idea, Sheriff. But I know something about him. When you approach him, be very careful. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “So am I,” Slaughter snapped. “We’d better get you to a doctor, Drake.”

  At that moment, Drake’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and his knees folded. He collapsed on the floor.

  Probably wasn’t the first time somebody had done that.

  * * *

  Arabella asked herself if the awful day would ever end. She had managed to sleep a bit—in a room at the American Hotel, since there was no way she was going to stay at the Top-Notch anymore—but her slumber had been nightmare-haunted and not the least bit restful.

  She hadn’t eaten anything, either. She hadn’t had any appetite since seeing Copper’s bloody corpse spread out across her bed.

  She wished she had never even come to Tombstone. Even if she won the tournament, she wasn’t sure it would be worth the falling out with Steve Drake and being suspected of murder.

  Money, after all, wasn’t everything.

  “Buck up, honey,” Beulah Tillery told her. The two women sat together at one of the tables in the saloon. “Connolly’s here, and Steve Drake ought to be coming along soon. We’ll get started, and once you’re holding the cards, you’ll forget about everything else.”

  “You really think so, Beulah?”

  “I know so. It’s the game. It pushes out everything else. Makes you see that everything in life, hell, it’s just a game, too. Play it the best you can, and let the cards fall how they will.”

  Arabella smiled. “That’s good advice.”

  “It ought to be. I’ve damn well
lived long enough. All those years ought to be good for something.”

  The blue haze of tobacco smoke that hung in the air began to sting Arabella’s lungs. Most of the time, she could tolerate it, but when the air was really still and hot, as it was that evening, the smoke bothered her. “I believe I’ll get a breath of fresh air.”

  “Don’t go too far, honey. As soon as Steve shows up, we’ll be getting started.” The older woman paused. “I hope the two of you can work out the trouble between you. He’s a good man. Sure, he makes some mistakes, but shoot, we’ve got to cut ’em some slack, don’t we? After all, they’re just men.”

  “We’ll see,” Arabella said, coolly reserved. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Steve Drake at the moment, and she certainly didn’t know how she would feel in the future.

  The idea of losing his friendship forever . . . didn’t sit well with her, either.

  She stepped out of the Top-Notch and moved along the boardwalk. The sun had set not long before, so the western sky was awash with red and gold. The heat was as overpowering as it had been for days. The air didn’t stir as shadows gathered.

  Something moved behind her, and she stiffened as she felt the prick of a blade against her throat.

  “Don’t move, Lady Arabella,” a man’s voice said. “I’d hate to have to open up that pretty neck of yours.”

  She stood frozen as if the temperature was a hundred degrees colder than it really was.

  “That’s good. I always knew you had some sense. You’re coming with me.”

  Arabella swallowed. It made the knife dig a little deeper into her skin for a second, but she had to in order to be able to speak. “Who . . . who are you? Why are you doing this?”

  “You don’t have to know that. Just come along. I’ll get us a couple horses—”

  “If you don’t tell me what this is about, I’m going to scream.”

  The knife pressed harder against her flesh. “You do and I’ll cut your throat.”

  She didn’t doubt it; she thought she heard madness in the man’s voice. But even though she knew she was taking a chance by doing it, she said, “You’ve already cut one woman’s throat, haven’t you?”

  He took hold of her arm with his other hand. The fingers closed cruelly. “How did you know that?”

  She didn’t answer the question. “You’re on the run, aren’t you? The sheriff has found you out, and you came here to get a hostage before you flee from Tombstone.”

  “And you delivered yourself right into my hands, lady. Come on. I won’t tell you again.”

  The brutal grip on her arm steered her toward the edge of the boardwalk and the pair of steps leading down to the street. Several horses were tied at a hitch rail a few feet away.

  Arabella knew that if she allowed the man, whoever he was, to take her out of Tombstone, she would never survive the night. She tried to drag her feet, but he forced her on with the knife still at her throat.

  As they went through a small patch of light to reach the horses, a powerful voice called from the other side of the street, “Rourke! Stop right there, mister! Let her go!”

  Max Rourke . . . ! Arabella knew his reputation, knew she was right about him being mad. She had no idea what was behind it all, but she had no trouble believing that he had killed Copper Farris. There was every chance in the world he had murdered Angelo Castro, too.

  “Stay back, Sheriff !” Rourke yelled as Slaughter started across the street toward them.

  Arabella saw the glint of the revolver in the lawman’s hand.

  “Stop or I’ll cut her throat! You know I’ll do it, Slaughter!”

  “Take it easy. You don’t want to cause more trouble for yourself, do you, Rourke?”

  The man laughed, and it wasn’t a pretty sound. “What do you think you’re going to do, hang me more than once? I knew when I saw you coming out of that grubby little hotel that Grayson and Muller must’ve talked. You’ve got the rats locked up, don’t you?”

  “Just Muller. Grayson’s dead, but he said enough before he died. And Muller won’t stop talking. I know everything, Rourke . . . except why you killed Angelo Castro.”

  “Why the hell not?” Rourke cackled again. “That dirty little Eye-talian had a lot of money on him. That gave me a bigger stake so I could stay in the game longer.”

  “But you lost anyway,” Slaughter said. “In the end Castro died for nothing, just like Copper Farris.”

  The shouting had drawn people from the Top-Notch and other businesses along the street.

  Arabella couldn’t turn her head to look, but her eyes darted back and forth and saw the edges of the growing crowd. “Mr. Rourke, you can’t possibly get away. Just look around you.”

  “Nobody’s going to stop me as long as I’ve got you.” He forced her another step closer to the horses. “We’re going to ride double for now. You’ll mount up first. Don’t try anything or I’ll rip you wide open. Your guts’ll spill out all over the street.”

  She whimpered, “Don’t hurt me, please.”

  “That’s more like it,” he said with vicious satisfaction in his voice. It was as if he knew she was too terrified to do anything except cooperate with him. He pulled the knife away from her throat. “Now get on that horse.”

  She reached up with her left hand as if she were going to grasp the saddle horn. At the same time, she twisted her body and brought her right arm around. When she flexed her wrist, the derringer slid smoothly from the spring-loaded holster into her palm.

  Rourke might have had time to see the weapon’s muzzle about three inches from his right eye before the derringer went off with a little pop, but that was the last thing he saw. The bullet exploded through his eye and into his brain, killing him instantly. He dropped the knife and fell away from her, limp as a rag doll.

  Slaughter reached Arabella a couple seconds later and reached out to steady her, but she didn’t need his help. She was cool and calm as she said, “I take it you have enough information now, Sheriff, to know that I didn’t kill Copper Farris or anyone else.”

  “Nobody but this fella, you mean. And if anybody ever needed killing, it was him.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me. What was this all about?”

  “Somebody else can explain that to you, somebody who wants to see you, anyway. He’s over at the hotel, getting patched up by the doctor.”

  “Steve—” She caught her breath. “Is he all right?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Slaughter told her, “but I’ve got a hunch he’ll be even better once he sees you.”

  Arabella hesitated. “I’m free to go?”

  “We’ll talk later, but yes, you are.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” Arabella started walking toward the hotel. By the time she had gone a few feet, she was almost running.

  Chapter 27

  Stonewall recognized Dallin Williams’s voice. For a second, he thought about making a grab for the rifle, or spinning around and trying to get his Colt out of its holster, but he discarded the idea. He knew he could never do either of those things in time to keep Dallin from shooting him.

  He would have liked to think that the cowboy wouldn’t do that . . . but under the circumstances, there was no way he was going to bet his life on that hunch.

  On the other side of the camp, Roy Corbett looked like he wanted to make a play, too. Stonewall caught his eye and gave a little shake of his head. He hoped Roy wouldn’t do anything to get them both killed.

  “You fellas stand next to each other,” Dallin ordered. “I want to be able to keep an eye on both of you at the same time.”

  “Dallin, you’re smart enough to know that you can’t get away with this,” Stonewall said. “The best thing you can do is surrender and let us take you back to Tombstone.”

  Dallin surprised him by saying, “Well, now, I might just do that, but we got to take care of some things first. Have you seen Little Ed?”

  “No, but he and his men are bound to be around here somewhere. They p
robably heard those shots, just like you did, and they’re gonna be looking for us.”

  “I hope so. Jessie’s got something to tell him.”

  “She’s with you?” Corbett exclaimed.

  “That’s right.” Dallin was in the rocks above the camp. He turned his head and called, “Jessie, come on down here. Bring the horse if you can.”

  Stonewall heard gravel sliding on the hillside. A few minutes later, several shapes loomed out of the darkness. Two people and a horse, he decided as they came closer.

  Dallin’s gun was down at his side. “I’m thinkin’ that if there are bronco Apaches around here, we need to find us a hidey-hole.”

  “I thought the same thing,” Stonewall agreed. “Someplace we can defend—”

  “Roy?” Jessie suddenly exclaimed as she came close enough to recognize him. “Roy Corbett?”

  He stepped forward. “Now, listen, Jessie—”

  “No!” she screamed. “Get him away from me!”

  Before Stonewall or Dallin could do anything, Corbett’s gun came out of its holster. He leveled the revolver at them and ordered coldly, “All right, you two, just stand still.”

  Jessie was breathing hard as she cringed against the horse. The animal was spooked to start with, and it became more skittish.

  “Roy,” Stonewall said, “what’s going on here?”

  “It was you!” Dallin said before Corbett had a chance to answer. “By God, you’re the one who hurt this girl!”

  “I didn’t hurt her,” Corbett said. “She wanted it. She’s been asking for it ever since I rode for Little Ed.”

  “She was just a kid then!” Stonewall exclaimed. “You said so yourself.”

  “That doesn’t change anything,” Corbett said.

  Jessie found her voice again. “He . . . he told me he’d kill me if I ever told anybody what he did. I didn’t really care about that, but . . . but he said he’d kill my ma and pa, too. He said he’d have to.”