Total bedlam was now the rule in the heretofore peaceful dining room. The members of Early’s posse, all lined up across the front wall of the room, were caught in a state of total confusion. Those who could react quickly enough to return fire were hampered by the exodus of the frightened patrons. One of the vigilantes, Johnny Duncan, shoved a terrified diner aside and fired at P. D., tearing a chunk of wood from the edge of the table she was now using as a shield. A split second later, Johnny went over backward, dropping his weapon to grasp his forehead with both hands over the hole Arlo’s bullet left there.
With all three Wildmoons spraying the room with bullets, randomly striking vigilantes as well as innocent patrons, the rest of Early’s posse threw valor to the wind, deeming it more important to save their skins. Out the door they fled, the three prospectors in the lead, never taking the time to look back. Of the survivors of the sudden firestorm set off inside the dining room, only Jack Porter and Will Peterson made an attempt to recover. Diving behind a horse trough, they laid in wait for the three desperadoes to come outside. Cautious now, when surprise was no longer in her favor, P. D. warned her sons to beware of ambush. She went to the front door and, with it cracked just enough to peer out, scanned the street, now almost empty of fleeing citizens. Scanning the street again, she almost passed over the watering trough, but something caught her eye, and she came back to check it. There was something on the ground beyond the trough. A grin slowly formed on her face when she identified the objects. They were two sets of boot heels. “Arlo, Bo,” she said, directing them to the two windows that flanked the door. “There’s two of them bastards layin’ behind the horse trough.” No further instruction was needed. When they were in place, P. D. gave the signal, and the three of them released a heavy rain of lead upon the trough. There was no reaction at first. Then, finally, it got too hot behind the trough, and the brothers-in-law decided they’d best get out of there. “Sou-weeee,” Bo yelled when the two jumped up and made a run for it. “Pig, pig, sou-wee,” he called after them while sighting his rifle on Jack Porter’s shoulder blades. Both men almost made it to the opposite side of the street before dropping dead in the mud.
Distracted by the sport of shooting at fleeing vigilantes, P. D. and her sons did not notice a slight movement in the back of the room. Deputy Marshal Alvin Tate had remained hugging the floor amid a scattering of dirty dishes, afraid to make a move during the chaos that consumed the dining room. He was shot in the leg, but he knew it was not fatal. He thought about shooting when the three gunmen were at the front with their backs to him. The thing that kept him from doing so was the fear that, even if he got one of them, the other two might react quickly enough to kill him. So, moving as quietly as he could manage, he started inching his way toward the kitchen door, crawling on hands and knees, his palms sweating in cold fear. Once inside the kitchen, he pulled himself up to his feet, and limped out the back door, only pausing briefly to exchange glances with a terrified Chinese cook who was huddled behind the stove.
Once he found himself safely outside in the alley behind the hotel, he hobbled along the side of the building toward the street. At the corner of the building, he stopped to peer around the front to survey the carnage in the street. The sight was enough to turn him sick with fear. The bodies of Jack Porter and Will Peterson were lying where they had fallen, almost at the board walkway on the opposite side of the street. Tate was almost in shock, hardly able to believe the massacre he had touched off. Malcolm Early was dead, so were Johnny Duncan and Billy Hyde; five of the posse had been gunned down, and not a scratch on the three gunmen he had thought to run out of town. Adding to the horror, there was no telling how many bystanders were murdered. There were two bodies that he could see near the middle of the street, and he had witnessed the death of the woman inside. What to do? What could he do? The rest of the posse had taken flight. He couldn’t do anything about the three still holed up in the dining room without help. Looking down at his bloody leg then, he decided the best thing to do was to get back to the jail and lock himself safely inside. Maybe the gunmen would ride out of Virginia City.
* * *
Locked inside his jail cell, Matt heard the eruption of gunfire down the street—a couple of shots at first, followed almost immediately by a barrage of gunfire. It sounded like a major skirmish had broken forth. With no outside window in his cell, he could only imagine what was going on, but he was prone to assume that the posse that had affected his arrest had proceeded to slaughter the three men he was after. The shooting lasted for no longer than ten or fifteen minutes, but he could hear an occasional excited voice as ordinary townsfolk ran by the jail on their flight to safety. Maybe his mission had been completed for him by the vigilante committee of Virginia City. Ironic, he admitted, but the satisfaction of exacting justice by his own hand was missing.
Near quiet had returned to the street outside the jail, and he was left to once again ponder his fate at the hand of the Virginia City marshal. He wondered what crime the spiteful lawman could concoct to hold him for. Mindful of that, he resumed his careful inspection of the bars in his cell, hoping to find a weakness he might exploit. He was stopped abruptly when the front door suddenly opened, and Deputy Marshal Tate staggered inside.
Matt read at once the state of shock that had descended upon the marshal. Wild-eyed and desperate, Tate slammed the door behind him and threw the bolt. One trouser leg soaked with blood, he hobbled over to his desk and started rummaging through the drawers, looking for something to tend his wound. Without so much as a glance in Matt’s direction, he dropped his trousers to his ankles to expose dingy gray underwear with one leg solid red from the thigh down. With trembling fingers, he took a pair of scissors from one of the drawers, and began to gingerly cut away at the leg of his underwear.
“Looks like you need a doctor,” Matt said.
Engrossed in his desperation to examine his wound, Tate recoiled in surprise when Matt spoke. As if just then remembering his prisoner, he turned to glare at him.
“I heard the shootin’,” Matt said. “Looks like you came out on the short end of it. Where’s the rest of your posse?” When Tate did not answer, but continued to glare accusingly at him, it occurred to Matt that the marshal and his men may have come out on the losing side of the gunfight. He was immediately concerned. “Son of a bitch,” he cursed. “You let ’em get away.”
Finding his tongue finally, Tate snarled, “You brought this on, damn you. I’ve a mind to hang you for bringing this trouble to my town.”
Matt was rapidly sizing up the situation. Judging by Tate bursting in the door and bolting it behind him, and the fact that none of his appointed vigilantes had come back with him, Matt figured Tate was afraid to go out the door, even to see the doctor. The marshal and his vigilante committee had run into a buzz saw, a little more than they had expected.
“Those three you went after, they’re still here, aren’t they?” Matt demanded. “You didn’t get a one of them.”
“None of your damn business,” Tate shot back. “I reckon I got you, all right, and you’ll still be here after your friends have gone.”
“When the hell are you gonna understand? They ain’t friends of mine. I followed ’em here to put an end to their devilry.” Fighting a feeling of total frustration, Matt went on. “Where’s the rest of your posse?” he repeated. “They got run off with their tails between their legs, didn’t they? Dammit, Marshal, you’re foolin’ with three dangerous men. You think they’re gonna just ride on outta here now that they’ve whipped you and your men? Why the hell should they? Hell, they own the town.”
Alvin Tate stared back at his prisoner with the eyes of a defeated man. He wanted to strike back at Matt’s accusations, but he was all out of courage, and feared deep inside that what Matt said was true. “The citizens of this town will band together to drive the bastards out,” he offered without conviction.
“The hell they will,” Matt snapped back. “They’ll crawl in their holes and l
ock the door just like you did. I’m the best bet you’ve got to get rid of those three. That’s what I came here to do. Let me outta here, and I’ll take care of your problem. And as soon as it’s done, I’ll be on my way. I can promise you that.”
Tate hesitated, unable to immediately reject Slaughter’s proposition. He was sorely tempted to take him up on it, by sending a killer to stop a killer. It might be difficult to explain such a move to the town council, none of whom were likely to pick up their guns and take the posse’s place. “How do I know, if I let you outta here, you won’t just hightail it outta town?” he asked, hedging.
“Because that’s what I came here to do. If you had left me alone, maybe you wouldn’t be carryin’ lead in your leg and there’d be fewer dead people around here.”
The idea was working on Tate’s mind. It wasn’t the right thing to do, but it might be the only thing to do. He despised himself for admitting it, but he knew that he had no stomach for a second confrontation with P. D. Wildmoon. He stood for a long moment with his hand on the ring of keys that would open the cell door, trying to make up his mind. “You ain’t really broke no laws, that’s true,” he rationalized. His mind made up, he walked to the cell door and inserted the key. Before turning it, he said, “I’m gonna deputize you, so you’ll be workin’ for law.”
“Any way you want it,” Matt said, quickly stepping through the open cell door in case Tate had a change of heart. “I need my rifle.”
Tate went to a cabinet in the corner of the room to retrieve the Henry rifle. “You ain’t goin’ back on me, are you?” he asked while maintaining a firm hand on the weapon.
“Reckon not,” Matt replied, taking the rifle from him. “Now, where are they?”
“The hotel dining room, Tate answered.
Matt checked the magazine and cranked a cartridge into the chamber. Then, as an afterthought, he asked, “Do you know who they are?”
“No,” Tate replied nervously. “I never seen ’em before.” Then he remembered. “Wait, the one that does all the talkin’ said his name was P. D. Wildmoon.”
P. D. Wildmoon: it was the name he had heard when he first crossed paths with the four bounty hunters south of the Big Horns.
Chapter 17
P. D. Wildmoon had not intended to take on the law in Virginia City. The incident in the hotel dining room was not something that she could have foreseen. But, when confronted by the enforcement committee, she had not been given time to think of the possible consequences of an aggressive reaction. Her response was a reflex action that came naturally to her. Luckily, her actions did not result in any harm to herself or her sons. To the contrary, the short but totally one-sided gunfight in the dining room had instilled a sense of invincibility in all three Wildmoons, a feeling that the town was theirs for the taking. They could turn the town upside down now in a search for Slaughter, unhindered by nosey lawmen. And after they had taken care of Slaughter, they could take what they wanted from the town before they left. P. D. had always been confident, but she was now experiencing euphoric feelings with the power she had gained with the routing of the marshal and the vigilantes. Still, she was not naive enough to think there was no threat to her and her boys just because she had destroyed any semblance of law in the town. Virginia City had a history of vigilante activity long before the law arrived in the territory, and she knew it was simply a matter of time before the citizens would organize to take action against her. She fully understood that her time of dominance was short, so she intended to take advantage of it while she could. “We’ll find Slaughter,” she told Arlo and Bo, “then we’ll loot this damn town and head back east before the good citizens know what hit ’em.”
The normally busy Wallace Street was now deserted as the three desperadoes left the hotel after picking up their belongings. P. D. wanted the horses saddled and their gear packed in case a quick departure became necessary. With a cautious eye on each door they passed, they walked toward the livery stable at the far end of the muddy thoroughfare, each with their saddlebags over their shoulders and Winchester rifles in hand. Anxious store owners and shopkeepers peeked from behind drawn shades and bolted doors, breathing easily only after the three passed them by.
“Whaddaya say we burn the damn jailhouse down?” Bo suggested, swaggering down the board sidewalk on one side of the street.
“Maybe we will,” P. D. replied from the opposite side of the street, “but we’ll take care of business first.” It was good to see her boys enjoying themselves. Approaching the general store, she called out, “Stop here. We might as well get some ammunition.”
Trying the door and finding it locked, P. D. called Arlo from the middle of the street. “I want in” was all she said to her son. Arlo grinned. Lowering his shoulder, he threw his oversized body against the door. The door was stout and failed to break, but the frame could not resist Arlo’s brute force. It splintered and split away from the jamb, leaving the door free to swing open.
P. D. walked into the store, holding her Winchester 66 before her. Backed against the rear wall, a frightened clerk cringed behind a stack of feed sacks. Pleased by the fear she obviously instilled in the man, she smirked and said, “You need to fix that door. It don’t open too easy.” Her remark caused Arlo and Bo to snicker. The smirk faded away from her face and then she demanded, “Where’s your .44 cartridges?” The clerk was quick to jump to her demand, pulling a box of the cartridges from under the counter at the back of the store. P. D. picked up the box, glanced at it to make sure it held the right ammunition, then tossed it to Bo. Giving the clerk a contemptuous grin, she went around behind the counter and pulled out several more boxes of cartridges, which Bo and Arlo quickly scooped up. “How much do we owe you?” P. D. asked. Then, before the terrified clerk could answer, she added, “Put it on the marshal’s account.”
* * *
Slaughter stepped out on the sidewalk. No sooner had his feet found the weathered gray boards than he heard the bolt thrown on the door behind him. Shadows were lengthening, and a thin mist of gun smoke still lay hovering over the muddy street. Several yards away, two bodies lay next to the sidewalk. Another body lay in the middle of the empty street. Diagonally across from him, on the other side, he saw the hotel dining room, its windows shattered and lifeless. He didn’t expect the three he sought to still be in the dining room, but he crossed the street and checked to be sure. It was empty. He walked on.
Like the quiet street, the man was patient as he searched each doorway he came to. It had been a long trail leading him to this town and this street, and there was a calmness in his mariner as he anticipated the final showdown. He paused when he came to the smashed-in door of the general store. Nudging the door slowly with the barrel of his rifle, he peered in to discover a disconcerted clerk standing near the door, holding a couple of pieces of the splintered doorjamb in his hand. Frightened, the clerk stepped back when he saw Matt.
“Where’d they go?” Matt asked softly.
Unable to speak, the clerk pointed toward the end of the street. Matt nodded and continued toward the stables.
* * *
Clyde Newton paused to lean on his pitchfork as he eyed the three who came in the open end of his stable. Like everyone else within earshot of the shooting, Clyde had run up the street to see what had caused the fuss. And like everyone else, when the killing spilled over into the street, he lit out for safer surroundings. With no time to get any details on what had happened inside the dining room, all he was able to learn was that Alvin Tate and Malcolm Early had gone into the hotel to make an arrest, and that’s when the shooting started. He got that bit of information from someone running past him, and the man wasn’t inclined to slow down long enough to offer details. Whatever had happened, and whoever was involved, it couldn’t have been good. Clyde had seen the bodies in the street. He didn’t get close enough to tell, but two of the bodies looked like Jack Porter and Will Peterson.
Now, as P. D. Wildmoon and her two sons ambled toward him, he w
asn’t sure whether he should be running for his shotgun or not. Since it was too late to do that at this point, he remained where he was, leaning on his pitchfork.
“We’ll be needin’ our horses,” P. D. said.
“You fixin’ to leave us?” Clyde asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Thought you fellers might be in town for a spell.” They had just brought their horses in the night before. The thought struck him then that the stranger he had reported to the marshal had been in only a few hours earlier asking after three riders. If Clyde was a betting man, and he was, he would have bet plenty that these three rough-looking saddle tramps were involved in the shooting. Since all three looked pretty damn healthy, it seemed to confirm his earlier assumption that it hadn’t gone well for the marshal. Right then, he knew that his best bet was to play dumb and hope they didn’t linger.
“You just bring our horses in the stable, here, so we can saddle ’em up,” P. D. said. Then, to her boys, she said, “We’ll leave ’em tied up here by these front stalls, so they’ll be ready if we need ’em in a hurry.” She turned back to Clyde again. “That’s all right with you, ain’t it, old man?”
“Anything you say’s all right with me,” Clyde quickly replied. He hesitated a moment before asking, “If you think you boys might be leavin’ in a hurry, you wanna settle up now?”
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