by Gary D. Svee
“Hell, yes, it will be. A lot bigger than a tin can.”
Galt shoveled coal on the forge. “This should be burning good by the time we get back. I’ll use the bellows to stoke it up, so you’ll have plenty of light.”
“Hell, yes, I’ll have plenty of light. Hell, yes.”
Nelly Frobisher had her coming-out party a week ago. Beulah and Bridget and Jezzie had nursed her through those dark times when she hid in the shadows of her childhood. Their soft words and gentle care pulled her back from her nightmares.
Nelly told the others her story, then, a story she had never told anyone else. Every Saturday, she said, she would try to hide from her abusive father. Every Saturday he tracked her home, making a child’s game of the violence he was about to visit on his tiny daughter.
“Hey, little piggy, no sense to hide,
Papa’s coming to take his bride.”
Their words began to flow, then, as their tears had. Bridget and Jezzie talked about their childhood and their first “lovers” and what had brought them to the life. Beulah was the last to talk because she had the most to lose. She talked about how she had been used by the lord of the manor where she worked back East. She had seen the advertisement in the paper. A farmer in Montana was in need of a wife. The advertisement said he was an honest, God-fearing man. But when he realized she was not a virgin, he raged at her. When she asked if he was, he struck her.
Beulah had been knocked unconscious, and when she awoke, she was in a feed shed that backed into the pigsty. That was her home, a hard-scrabble bed she built of boards so she wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. She covered herself at night with burlap sacks and the stink of the pigsty. The stench permeated her pores, until she thought that she would never be shut of it.
She had almost come to believe that she was a pig. She ate scraps. She slept next to them, imitating their grunts and squeals, trying to learn their language. She needed to tell someone that her back ached or that the sun was burning her or that the cold had seeped into her bones and would never come out.
Her husband spoke to her as much with his fists as with his words. His words were limited to telling her what her work would be that day. When he had butchered that fall, Beulah had in her mind that he intended to butcher her, too, to hang her hams in the smoker behind his cabin so he would have meat in the cold winter months. It was then that she had gone into the cabin and taken the shotgun from the wall.
When he came back to the sty and found that she was not at work, he had raged at her, shouting for her to come out where he could see her. So she did come out, and when he saw the shotgun, he glared at her. She was too stupid even to cock the hammers, he said. So he strode toward her, his face livid with rage while she tried with her tiny hands to cock the weapon.
She still remembered the look on his face when the buckshot tore through his gut. He was surprised, Beulah told the other women. He was so very surprised. She had dragged his body into the sty with the pigs so that they might have meat for the winter. When they were finished, she carried the bones into the cabin. She sloshed kerosene over the floor and stepped outside, tossing a lighted match through the door. She opened the gate to the sty then, and to her shed where the feed was kept.
The pigs had followed her for a while, she striding along with the shotgun under her arm and the towering fire at her back, but eventually they went back, the sty being the only home they had known.
The stories brought the women together and made them stronger. And that was the reason that when Jack Galt and Leaks Donnan stepped through the front door of Nelly Frobisher’s establishment that night, it was much different from the first time they terrorized the women.
Nelly was sitting in her little office, going over her books. When she heard the front door open, she stood, sweeping aside the green velvet curtain that separated her office from the front room.
Galt watched her, anticipating the panic that would cross her face as it had before. But there was no fear in her face.
Nelly walked to the stairs leading to the second floor. “Beulah,” she called. “It’s time to slop the hogs.”
Beulah’s laughter preceded her down the stairs. Galt and Donnan heard the ugly snick of one hammer being pulled back to full cock, and then the snick of the other hammer.
Galt stepped back. It shouldn’t be like this. They should be terrified. They shouldn’t be so sure of themselves. He was Jack Galt, a man of great power, a killer of whores. Nelly Frobisher should be terrified, but she stood as confidently as she might when welcoming an old customer.
And then from the stairs: “Sooee Sooee!” Nelly took up the call: “Sooee, sooee!” Bridget and Jezzie’s voices floated down from the second floor: “Sooee, sooee!”
Terror edged into Donnan’s voice. “Why are they calling the pigs, Jack? They ain’t got any pigs. Why are they calling the pigs, Jack?”
Galt’s voice cracked. “You whores best be careful. I’ve got Dangerous Donnan here, and he’s armed with a new pistol. You whores best learn your place.”
But the only reply to the threat was another sooee! from the staircase. Closer, now. Too close, and then Jack Galt thought about his mother coming to get him. “He’s the whore,” she had said. “He’s the whore, not me.” Terror coursed through Galt.
“Run, Leaks. Run. These whores mean to kill us.”
Both men burst through the door just as Beulah turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs. A blast of buckshot followed them into the darkness of the night.
28
Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter lay in his bed, staring at a ceiling he couldn’t see in the darkness. Tomorrow, on Thursday the Fourth of July in the year of our Lord 1912, he would stand at the altar with Catherine Lang and become one with her in God’s eyes and his own.
Her image had come to him so many times in his dreams that the dreams seemed real and tomorrow a dream. Her arrival, their new home, the community’s generosity all seemed more dream that reality.
He was going over each moment now, remembering the tilt of Catherine’s head, her laughter, her awe at the beauty of the place where they would make their home. She teased smiles from Mac, and that pleased the sheriff. He was surprised at how quickly Catherine and Mary had become friends. Their lives had been so different, but they shared something that made their friendship special. Still, the sheriff stood guard over his happiness, his mind tripping over everything that could go wrong.
The rap at the door was an intrusion, breaking into his thoughts. For a moment he ignored it, but it persisted. The sheriff pulled back the covers and rose from the bed, pulling on a pair of trousers.
Pete Pfeister was at the door. “Sorry to bother you, Sheriff.”
Drinkwalter nodded. “Come in.”
The sheriff led Pfeister through the darkness to the table in his kitchen. He pulled a match from the box on the shelf above the stove and lit a lantern he kept in the middle of the table. Even as he put the flickering match to the wick, he realized that he might have pulled the string on the single lightbulb overhead. But Drinkwalter was more a man of kerosene lamps than of electric lights. He wasn’t at ease yet with flipping a switch.
The lamp lit Pfeister’s face from the bottom up, cheekbones casting dark shadows in eye sockets, his soft, round face drawn stark and sharp-edged. For a moment the sheriff’s sleep-addled brain painted that face as death, death come for Stillwater County Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of that image.
“What happened?”
“Well, I was tending bar and Beulah came in.” Pfeister cocked his head, willing the sheriff to understand. “She works out at Nelly’s. She’s kind of heavyset…”
“I know Beulah.”
“Anyhow, Jack Galt and Leaks Donnan showed up at Nelly’s.”
Pfeister shook his head. “Thought I knew everything that happened in Eagles Nest. Didn’t know about the restraining order. Did that have something to do with Nelly’s place being closed?”
Drinkwalter nodded.
Pfeister shook his head. “I’m not sure I understand this, but when Galt and Donnan came in, Nelly yelled it was time to slop the hogs. What the hell do you suppose she meant by that?”
“Tell me what happened, Pete.”
“Well, Beulah came down the stairs with a shotgun. Now, Leaks Donnan ain’t spit, but Galt looks mean as a rabid dog. Didn’t bother Beulah. She was set to go head to head with both of them.”
Pete shook his head. “I don’t think Beulah was bluffing, and Jack Galt didn’t think so, either. They lit out. Beulah hurried them on their way with a blast from her shotgun. She doesn’t think she hit anyone.”
“Anyhow, she said you had asked Nelly to tell you if Galt ever showed up there again. Well, he did, so she told me, and I’m telling you. I suppose this could wait for a couple of days, what with the wedding and all, but she told me to tell you…”
“Thanks, Pete. Appreciate your telling me.”
Drinkwalter stared out the window. “Who’s tending the store?”
“Harry Goetz. He fills in for me sometimes.”
Drinkwalter turned to Pfeister. “I have a favor to ask. Bert’s out at the house with Catherine and the McPhersons. I’ll be hauling Galt and Leaks in. I’d like to have you at the jail—just in case.”
Pfeister nodded. He reached the door, before turning back to the sheriff. “Best watch your back. Leaks is carrying a pistol now. He was showing it off at the Absaloka today. Thinks he’s some desperado or something. Kept telling people to call him Dangerous Donnan.”
“He’s dangerous, all right—to Leaks Donnan,” Drinkwalter said. “Funny he hasn’t shot his foot off.”
Galt stood in the shadows, watching the railroad track.
“He’s coming, Dangerous. He’s coming. You ready, now?”
“Hell, yes, I’m ready.”
“You cock that pistol, now. So he doesn’t hear it when he comes in.”
Snick. Snick. The pistol’s hammer slid past half cock to full cock.
“You sure this is going to work?”
“Can’t fail. He comes in here blasting. You pull your pistol to save your life and mine and shoot him dead. You’re going to be a hero, Dangerous. You’ll be the man who gunned down Sheriff Drinkwalter in a fair fight. You’ll be the man who saved a friend from that wild-eyed son of a bitch.”
“What if they charge us?”
“Our word against his, and he’ll be dead. When you get right down to it, the law is a weak sister. You can bend it around your finger anyway you want. Won’t be any trial, and when the rumbling cools down, we’ll set up a whorehouse with that new bride of his. We’ll auction her off the first time. Not often men get to buy a whore who’s still a virgin. We’ll make us some money, and you’ll get a new name, Dangerous Donnan.”
Donnan’s voice took on a whine. “I don’t really have to shoot it out with him, do I? He’s a hell of a shot. I seen him shoot.”
“Hell, no. I don’t want to risk a good friend like you. All you got to remember is to shoot when I say shoot. All you got to do is hit the tin can in the center of his chest.”
“I can do that. Hell, yes, I can do that.”
“Quiet, now, he’s almost here. Just stay quiet until I say shoot.”
“Hell, yes. Hell, yes, I can stay quiet until I shoot him.”
“Good. Now, hush.”
Galt stepped behind the forge, pumping air on the hot coals so they would glow with light, so they would give Leaks Donnan an easy shot when Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter stepped through the door.
It was a beautiful night wrapped in stars. The sheriff almost tripped over the tracks as he watched a falling star streak through the sky on some cosmic mission. There was light in Galt’s smithy, and it flared a little brighter as the sheriff watched. He took his eyes from the light, focusing them on the darkness at his feet. If he lost his night vision, no telling what he might step on. Shouldn’t be any rattlesnakes out now, but you never knew. Sometimes they came out of the long river grass to lie on the road, absorbing the heat it held during the cool of the night. It wouldn’t do to step on a rattler tonight.
More pressing was the arrest of Jack Galt and Leaks Donnan. Each arrest was different. Drunks were likely to believe they had the power to shape the law with their fists. Wife beaters railed at the law, unwilling to face their own inadequacies. Most arrests were peaceful, though, the people recognizing that they had done something wrong and regretting it.
Always before arrests, Drinkwalter tried to appraise how people would react. Doing that had kept him out of trouble more than once. But Galt was strange. He was a man without remorse.
The light from the forge temporarily blinded the sheriff as he stepped into the smithy. He blinked, trying to bring his eyes into focus, and the shape of a man emerged behind the forge.
“Galt? That you, Galt?”
The man didn’t answer. The sheriff stepped closer to the forge. It was Galt, all right, and he was grinning. The grin was evil, pure evil. He must know that he would be arrested: Why was he grinning like that?
“Galt, you’re under arrest. You’ll have to come with me tonight.”
“Don’t think I’ll do that, Sheriff.”
“Don’t think you have any choice.”
“No, I think maybe I’ll celebrate tonight. Going into a new business.”
“You’re going to jail.”
“No, I’m going to start a whorehouse. Minute I saw your bride, I said to myself, now, there’s a whore to build a whorehouse around. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to start a whorehouse.”
“Hell, yes. We’re going to build a whorehouse. Hell, yes.”
The sheriff’s eyes probed the darkness. “That you, Leaks?”
The smile left Galt’s face. “Leaks, you stupid son of a bitch. I told you to keep your mouth shut.”
“Hell, yes, I can keep my mouth shut.”
And then Drinkwalter realized what he had stepped into. Donnan was carrying a pistol, and Galt was shouting, “Shoot. Shoot, you stupid son of a bitch.”
“Hell, yes, I can do that. Hell, yes, I can.”
Drinkwalter saw a yellow ball with a black dot in the middle just as the thump of the pistol reached his ears. The slug hit him like a fist in the center of his chest and threw him backward, he hit his head on something hard as he fell, and then there was only darkness.
Galt stepped quickly around the forge. The sheriff was flat on his back, his head twisted to one side, his shirt red with blood. The blacksmith bent over the body, pulling the sheriff’s pistol from his holster.
“Dangerous, you drilled him dead center, and he’s got a wad of cash on him. You not only got the sheriff, but a wad of cash, too.”
“Hell, yes. Hell, yes. I got the sheriff. Hell, yes, I did.” Donnan stepped around the forge and leaned down to look at the sheriff’s wad of money, but all he saw was the muzzle of the sheriffs pistol. Now, why would Galt be …
Thump!
The bullet turned Donnan’s brain to a fine pink mist and sprayed it out the back of his head.
“You can bend the law to your own purpose,” Galt said to his victim, “but not with a brainless fool like you on the witness stand.”
Brainless, that’s what Donnan was now, brainless. The thought tickled Galt, and he almost laughed, but he had more important things to do. The laughter would come later, when he showed Catherine Lang his knife. He would laugh then. Laugh and laugh and laugh.
The blacksmith pressed the sheriff’s pistol to his side, aiming the muzzle so the bullet would tear his skin and bounce off a rib before hitting the back of the smithy. Thump.
The blow hit Galt like one of Sheriff Thompson’s fists, knocking the wind from him. He bent over, grasping his knees and trying to suck breath back in his lungs. Then came the searing pain. Galt’s eyes squeezed shut. For a moment he thought he would faint. He pulled back the hammer on the sheriffs pistol snick, snick. Then he put
the muzzle against his thigh, so the bullet would only cut through his skin on its way to the south wall.
Thump! Again searing pain that almost snatched his consciousness away, but Galt gritted his teeth and stood. He dropped the pistol just beyond the sheriff’s fingers and turned toward the door. Every breath sent pain shrieking through his chest.
It was dark outside, very dark, and that was good. Jack Galt drew strength from the darkness as plants draw strength from the sun. He stopped once at the railroad track, trying to suck air into his lungs in little bits to limit the pain. That was how he made his way to the Absaloka Saloon, stopping every minute or so to catch his breath.
Galt staggered on, leaving a trail of blood on the walk. He burst through the batwing doors of the Absaloka. The bartender looked up, his eyes widening as he saw Galt’s blood-drenched body. All noise stopped; only Galt’s wheezing breath could be heard.
“The sheriff came shooting,” Galt wheezed. “He shot Donnan and me, and Donnan shot him.” Galt fell then to the floor, a wave of darkness opening to embrace him.
Mac came awake with a jerk. It was dark still in the pantry, but something had awakened him. Someone was moving around in the parlor. Dread, dark as the pantry, filled the boy. Somehow Galt had gotten past Bert, and now he was in the house, seeking Catherine and his mother.
Mac’s hand was shaking as he reached for the door handle. Galt was too strong to handle straight on. Mac would have to be very quiet, come up behind him with … with what? He had no weapon. He turned the door handle slowly, willing it to be silent. He opened the door an inch. A soft light filtered into the pantry, and Mac’s eyes searched it frantically for a weapon of some sort. There! On the shelf. A rolling pin. That would be perfect.
Mac grasped one end of the pin and eased into the hallway. The scuffing noise again! Galt was in the parlor. The boy edged to the doorway and peered around it, slowly so he could see without being seen. Mac charged into the room, rolling pin raised high and a little squeal whistling from his lungs, only to come face to face with his mother and Catherine.