Kill Crazy

by William W. Johnstone

“Not according to Marshal Cline. I sent him this telegram.” Marshal Ferrell showed the telegram to Duff.

  TRYING TO LOCATE JOHNNY TAYLOR

  STOP THINK HE MIGHT BE IN YOUR

  TOWN STOP HE IS WANTED FOR BANK

  ROBBERY STOP JERRY FERRELL

  MARSHAL CHUGWATER

  “And this is what he sent back.”

  JOHNNY WAS HERE FOR SHORT TIME

  STOP BUT LEFT AND HAS NOT

  RETURNED STOP C F CLINE MARSHAL

  BORDEAUX

  “Do you think the marshal is nae telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met this fella, C.F. Cline, but I have heard of him. And from what I heard, he would seem more likely to be a snake oil salesman, or maybe even a chicken thief, than a marshal. Anyway, it was just a thought.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “You don’t want to go to Bordeaux,” Elmer said that evening as he and Duff had supper together.

  “Why would I nae want to go there?”

  “Bordeaux is an outlaw town.”

  “What is an outlaw town?”

  “They are towns where there is no law.”

  “But this town has law. It has a marshal, a man by the name of C.F. Cline.”

  “I know Cline.”

  “You know him?”

  “We did a couple of jobs together back in Kansas.”

  “By jobs, you mean?”

  “We held up a stagecoach once. And we robbed a train.”

  Duff chuckled. “Elmer, please tell me that we’ll nae be sitting here someday when a member of the constabulary will come in, bearing a warrant for some long-ago crime.”

  “I can’t tell you that, Duff,” Elmer said. “Though I will say that it has been so long since I done anything that would set the law after me, that ever’one has more ’n likely forgot by now.”

  “Have you ever been to Bordeaux?” Duff asked.

  “I’ve never been to Bordeaux, but I’ve been to towns like Bordeaux . . . robbers’ roosts, we used to call them.”

  “Marshal Ferrell says he believes Johnny might be there, but when he sent a telegram to the marshal over there, Cline telegraphed him back saying that he was nae there.”

  “If you ask me, a fella like C.F. Cline saying he’s not there just makes me believe all the more that he would be there.”

  “Does it now? Then, perhaps I’ll just make a visit up there and have a look around.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that, Duff,” Elmer said.

  “Oh?”

  “Do you know what Johnny Taylor looks like?”

  “I’m nae sure I have ever encountered the gentleman.”

  Elmer laughed. “You seen him more than once, you’ve captured his brother, and you’ve kilt three of his men.”

  “Aye, but they were all masked. So I would nae recognize Mr. Taylor if he were to approach me and ask me directions.”

  “Right, and that’s my point. You wouldn’t recognize him on sight, but he damn sure knows who you are. And he has a really big reason for wanting you dead. I’d be thinkin’ twice about goin’ to Bordeaux, if I were you.”

  “And if I don’t go, would you be for tellin’ me how I might go about finding this man?”

  “I’ll go.”

  “What? You’ll do nae such thing, Elmer Gleason. ’Tis not your job to go.”

  “How much are they paying you for being a deputy?”

  “Why, they are nae paying me anything.”

  “Uh-huh. Then it’s not your job either, is it?”

  “Elmer, I . . .”

  “I use to run in that world, Duff. and I probably still have a few friends remaining, that is them that hadn’t done been carted off to prison or hanged or the like. If anyone is going to go up to Bordeaux to have a look around, it’s going to be me. Don’t try and talk me out of it.”

  “All right, Elmer, I’ll nae talk you out of it.”

  “Damn,” Elmer said. “Hell, you mean you aren’t even goin’ to try and talk me out of it? Just a little bit?”

  “I thought you did nae want me to talk you out of it.”

  “Well, I wanted you to try a little bit to talk me out of it. That way it makes me seem like more a hero when I go.”

  Duff laughed. “I’ll ask you nae to go.”

  Elmer held his hand up and shook his head. “I’m thankin’ you for your worry, but I’ll be goin’ all the same.”

  “Do I have to try and talk you out of it any more?” Duff asked.

  “Lord no, if you ask again I just might back out. Now, tell me what you need to know.”

  “I want you to see if you can find this man, Johnny Taylor. All I know is his name. Also, if you can, see who the others are who are with him. I do nae mind goin’ up against one or two, even more men. But if such thing is to happen, I’m sure I’d be for wantin’ to know who it is that’s the enemy.”

  “I’ll get back whatever information I can find out,” Elmer said.

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you? Maybe to just be there to help out, should you be needin’ any.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Duff, but I don’t want you with me. They’ll recognize you, sure as a gun is iron. And if they recognize you, then see me with you, where does that leave me?”

  “Aye, I see your point,” Duff said. “Elmer, find out what you can, but I do nae want you to try and be a hero.”

  “Believe me, Duff, I ain’t the hero type.”

  Bordeaux was a scattering of flyblown, sun-bleached, weathered, and unpainted buildings laid out on both sides of a quarter-mile-long road, which was the only street in the town. Its reputation as a “Robbers’ Roost,” or “Outlaw Haven” was well earned.

  Marshal Cline was a lawman in name only, and visitations by law officers from elsewhere in the territory were discouraged. They were so strongly discouraged that there was a place in the town cemetery prominently marked as LAWMAN’S PLOT. Here, tombstones marked the graves of three lawmen: two deputy sheriffs and one deputy U.S. Marshal.

  HERE LIES

  A DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL

  WHOSE NAME AIN’T IMPORTANT

  HE WASN’T WELCOME HERE

  The two tombstones for the deputy sheriffs read exactly the same. It wasn’t clear whether there really were three lawmen buried there or not. The very presence of the tombstones tended to keep curious lawmen away . . . and that was their intended purpose.

  Though it had been a while since Elmer had been in a place like Bordeaux, there was a strong sense of familiarity to it, and an even stronger attraction. Such towns were a part of his heritage, and he could no more turn his back on them than he could on the life he was living now.

  Inside the Red Eye Saloon, Kid Dingo, Creech, and Phelps were sitting at a table near the front window. One week ago, they, along with Simon Reid, had robbed a general store of two hundred and twelve dollars and since that time had spent their money so freely on drinks and whores that, by now, the money was nearly gone.

  “Too bad Reid ain’t still cowboyin’,” Phelps said. “Takin’ them cows and sellin’ ’em like we done was the easiest money we ever made.”

  “Except he got hisself fired,” Kid Dingo said.

  “And he sure ain’t done nothin’ for us since he’s come here. All he does is lay around with whores all the time,” Phelps said.

  “You know what we need to do, don’t you?” Creech said. “What we need to do is rob a bank. That’s where the real money is.”

  “Banks ain’t that easy to rob,” Phelps said. “That’s why they’re called banks.”

  “I don’t know. They’re sayin’ that Johnny Taylor got a lot of money from that bank down in Chugwater,” Creech said.

  “Yeah, and Jackson, Short, and Blunt got themselves kilt and Johnny’s own brother is in jail,” Phelps pointed out.

  “Short wasn’t killed during the bank robbery, and Blunt wasn’t even a part of the holdup,” Creech said.

  “Hey, lookie here,” Kid Ding
o, pointing out the window. “Look at that old son of a bitch coming up here. What do you think he’s doing in a town like this?”

  “I don’t know,” Creech said. “Maybe he stole a pair of false teeth somewhere.”

  The other two laughed.

  “I think I’m going to have a little fun with him,” Kid Dingo said. “Watch.”

  “Better watch it, Kid. If he really actually stole them false teeth, he might bite you,” Creech suggested.

  Elmer stopped in front of the Red Eye Saloon, dismounted, then took off his long duster, rolled it up, and began to tie it to the back of his saddle. As he was securing the duster, someone spoke to him.

  “Old man, you may as well get back on your horse and ride out of here. We don’t like strangers here.”

  Elmer turned to see a young man with beady eyes and a wild shock of hair. He returned to the task of tying off his duster.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? Climb back up on your horse and get. An old man like you is liable to get run over by a horse or something. Don’t you turn your back on me, you gray-haired old son of a bitch!”

  Elmer continued to tie off the rawhide cords, without so much as an acknowledgment of the irritating young man. That was when he heard the sound of a revolver being cocked.

  “Maybe I had better introduce myself,” the punk said. “Folks call me Kid Dingo. I reckon that name means something to y—”

  That was as far as Kid Dingo got, because quietly, and unobserved, Elmer had snaked his shotgun from the saddle sheath. And when he turned, he didn’t just turn. He whirled around much faster than the kid would have expected an old man to move. The butt of his shotgun caught the kid in the jaw, and blood and teeth flew from his mouth as he went down, falling face first in a pile of recent horse droppings. The kid’s confrontation with Elmer had brought Creech and Phelps out of the saloon.

  “Hey, old man, you goin’ to leave him like that? He’s facedown in horse shit. He could smother.”

  Elmer looked back at the kid. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said.

  Walking over to him, Elmer kicked him in the side. Kid Dingo groaned and rolled over onto his back. His face was covered with horse dung, but he was no longer in danger of smothering. When he started back toward the saloon, Creech and Phelps moved to block his way.

  Elmer, who was still carrying his shotgun, raised it. It wasn’t until then that the two men noticed the barrel had been sawed off to about twelve inches.

  “There are two of you,” Elmer said quietly. “And I’ve got two barrels.”

  The two men stepped out of his way, and Elmer went on inside.

  The clientele of the Red Eye was composed of men and women who had, long ago, stepped out of mainstream society, so while Elmer’s reaction to the three young punks who had confronted him gained him enough recognition to be accepted, they weren’t overly impressed by it. The more experienced of them had seen men like Elmer before, and knew that age was not the determining factor in a man’s mettle.

  There were at least four bar girls working the saloon, but it was difficult to tell how old they were. Their years on the line had taken so much from them that even the most artful use of face paint could not reverse the dissipation of their profession.

  “What can I get for you?” the bartender asked.

  “What’s the cheapest whiskey you got?” Elmer asked in a gravelly voice.

  “Hell, the cheapest is also the most expensive,” the bartender replied.

  “Really? Well, then give me the best you’ve got,” Elmer said, putting a quarter on the bar. “I don’t often get to drink the most expensive whiskey.”

  The others in the bar laughed. None of them realized that by most measuring standards, Elmer was a wealthy man who could, if he wished, buy this saloon, and just about every other business in town.

  “What’s your name?” the bartender asked as he poured the drink.

  “Why do you need to know?” Elmer replied. “Are you making up a list?”

  “No, just curious is all.”

  “That a fact? No offense, mister, but I don’t like people who are curious.”

  “Mister, look out!” one of the bar girls shouted, and Elmer swung toward the front door with his shotgun in hand.

  “You son of a bitch!” a shit-faced Kid Dingo shouted. He fired at Elmer, the bullet crashing into the bar right beside him. Elmer fired back, the roar of the shotgun sounding like an explosion. The blast of double-aught shot opened up Kid Dingo’s chest and propelled him back through the batwing doors with such force that one of them was ripped from its hinges.

  Even as the gun was still smoking, Elmer broke the barrel down, pulled out the expended shell, and replaced it with another.

  Creech and Phelps came running into the saloon then.

  “Better hold it, boys! He reloaded!” the bartender shouted.

  The two men stopped. Creech pointed a finger at Elmer. “That old son of a bitch killed our friend!”

  “Yeah, I did. And I’m about to kill you two as well.” Elmer raised the gun to his shoulder and pulled back both hammers.

  “No!” Creech shouted. He and Phelps turned, and ran from the saloon, chased by the laughter of all the patrons. A moment later, they were on their horses, galloping out of town.

  Elmer took his glass of whiskey to one of the tables and sat down to peruse the room. Most of the others in the saloon were in pairs or in groups of no more than three. But at one table in the corner, he saw seven men sitting together.

  “You’re a little free with your gun, aren’t you, mister?”

  Elmer looked up at the questioner, and smiled. “Hello, Cline. It’s been a good while, hasn’t it?”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Marshal Cline stared at Elmer for a long moment before recognition slowly passed across his face.

  “Gleason? Elmer Gleason, is that you?”

  “Well, I ain’t no ghost.”

  “Hell, I heard you went to sea. I thought maybe you’d drowned someplace.”

  “Near ’bout did a couple of times. Have a seat. I’ll buy you a drink. And ’cause we ain’t seen each other in a long while, I’ll buy you the most expensive drink in the house.”

  Marshal Cline smiled, then took his seat. He lifted his hand toward the barkeep. “Whiskey,” he called out.

  “I heard you was marshalin’ up here,” Elmer said. “I had to come see for myself if it was true.”

  “Well, you’ve seen,” he said, taking the whiskey from the barkeeper. “What do you think?”

  “I have to say that I’m damn surprised. I never thought I’d see my old friend C.F. Cline on this side of the law.”

  “Old friend? We may have pulled a couple of jobs together, but we never was what you would call close friends. Hell, the way I remember it, you run away to sea to keep me from killin’ you.”

  “Is that the way you remember it?” Elmer asked, calmly and unemotionally.

  “Yeah.” Cline took a drink, then set the glass back down. “Hell of it is, though, I don’t remember for the life of me why it is that I was about to kill you.”

  “Does that mean I’m safe, ’til you remember?”

  Cline laughed. “I reckon it does. What’d you kill the boy for?”

  “It seemed the thing to do. I mean, seein’ as he was tryin’ to kill me.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I met him about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “You only knew him for fifteen minutes, and he tried to kill you? How the hell did you piss somebody off enough in just fifteen minutes that he wanted to kill you?”

  “It might have had something to do with the fact that I sort of knocked him facedown into a pile of horse shit.”

  Cline laughed again, this time so hard that he got the attention of the others in the saloon. One of the others came over to the table.

  “For a marshal just come to arrest someone for a killin’, you two seem to be gettin’ on pretty well.”

  “Joh
nny, this here is my old friend Elmer Gleason. Elmer, this is Johnny Taylor.”

  “You robbed the bank in Chugwater,” Elmer said. It wasn’t a question, nor was it a challenge. It was a simple statement of fact.

  “How do you know that?” Johnny asked, his suspicions aroused. “Are you a lawman?”

  “Hell, Johnny, ever’body in Laramie County knows you robbed that bank. And no, I ain’t no lawman any more than my ol’ friend C.F. Cline is a lawman.”

  “That’s a funny way of puttin’ it. Seein’ as Cline is a lawman.”

  “Is he?”

  Johnny looked at Cline, then shook his head and smiled. “I reckon you’re right. He ain’t no lawman. Not no real lawman, anyway. Real lawmen ain’t welcome here. So, tell me, Gleason, what are you doin’ in Bordeaux?”

  “I come here ’cause I thought this was a place where folks didn’t ask you a lot of fool questions.”

  “Some folks don’t ask questions and some do. I got a reason for askin’. Seein’ as you know I held up the bank in Chugwater, it could be that you are a bounty hunter. If you are, you’re goin’ to play hell collectin’ on it.”

  “Or, it could be that your operation was so slick, and you got so much money, that I might be wantin’ to join up with you for your next one.”

  “How do you know there’s goin’ to be a next one?”

  “I don’t see you walkin’ away from a winnin’ hand on the table.”

  “You and Mr. Gleason ought to get along, Johnny, seein’ as you are in the same business,” Cline said.

  “You’ve held up banks before?” Johnny asked.

  “With your marshal,” Elmer answered.

  “Jonesburg, Kansas,” Cline said.

  Johnny nodded. “All right, come on, let me introduce you to some of my pals.”

  Elmer stood up, but before he walked away he looked back down at Cline. “What about the man I just kilt? Do I need to be signin’ any papers, or goin’ before a judge, or a justice of the peace or anything?”

  “You got twenty dollars on you?” Cline asked.