Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die

by Johnstone, William W.

  “Ringo, I’d ride to hell for a hot coal to light my see-gar with, if’n it’d git me out of here.”

  Curly Bill unlocked the cell door, letting Polk out. “Hallelujah,” Polk said.

  “You’re making a big mistake, Muldoon,” Osgood said.

  “The biggest mistake I made was getting caught. That won’t happen again.”

  “You’re riding to your death in Mexico, all of you. What can a handful of you do against a whole army of slave hunters?”

  “Now you just hesh up, little deppity, and try them iron bars on for size.”

  “‘Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage,’ the poet said—but that’s not the way to bet it,” Ringo said.

  “What the hell are you talking about, John?” Curly Bill said, puzzled, frowning.

  “Never mind.”

  “You got to stop reading all them books. It ain’t healthy. Makes you talk crazy.”

  Ringo, Curly Bill, Gila, and Polk went into the front office.

  “Por favor, señores, my gun. It has been with me for a long time. I would hate to lose it now, when I shall soon have need of it.”

  “I’d like to hold on to my hogleg, too, Ringo—it suits me,” Polk said.

  “Where do they keep your guns?”

  “Locked up in the side drawer of the desk, the big one on the right, like a locker drawer,” Polk said, indicating it.

  Curly Bill went to Osgood, holding the key ring up in front of his face. “Which key opens the drawer, Deputy?”

  Osgood was silent. “If I have to shoot the lock off, a ricochet might hit you right between the eyes,” Ringo said to Osgood.

  “The small shiny steel key,” Osgood said, pointing it out.

  Curly Bill separated the key from the others and fit it in the locked drawer of the desk. It was a lock-erlike cabinet, its rectangular hinged door opening outward. Within lay a heap of gun belts and knives.

  Bill hauled out an armful and dropped them on the desk. “That one there, in the buscadero holster,” Gila said, eagerly reaching for it.

  Ringo pointed the pistol at him, wagging it chidingly. “Uh-uh. No guns for you, not yet. Maybe when we get to know you better. You take it, Bill.”

  Gila’s gun was a long-barreled .44 in a soft leather holster, Mexican buscadero style. The gun belt was buckled closed. Curly Bill looped it over his left shoulder. “I’ll take real good care of it for you,” he told Gila. “You won’t be needing it just yet.”

  “Tombstone is a dangerous town, señor.”

  “You won’t be staying long. We’ll be leaving soon.”

  “The sooner, the better.”

  “Okay if I get my gun?” Polk Muldoon asked.

  “Help yourself,” Ringo said.

  Polk picked up a well-worn gun belt with an equally well-worn Colt .45 in the holster. He buckled it low on his hips, below the swelling bulge of his big gut. “First time I’ve felt fully dressed in a coon’s age.”

  Ringo used a pencil to scrawl something on the back of a Wanted circular.

  “What’s that, John?” Curly Bill asked.

  “A receipt.”

  It read:

  Received one prisoner.

  (signed)

  RINGO

  Ringo read the message aloud to the others. “That makes everything nice and legal.” He left the receipt on the desk, pinning it down with Osgood’s pistol. He and the others went out, making for the horses.

  “Them two’s my horse and Ringo’s. Mount up on the others.”

  “I see you brung a horse for me. You must’ve been almighty sure of yourselves,” Polk said.

  Ringo shook his head. “We were sure of you.”

  They untied the horses and saddled up.

  “A few minutes ago, I was in an iron cage under the shadow of the gallows. Now I am a free man with a fine horse under me,” Gila said.

  “A philosopher, eh?” Ringo said.

  “Life sure is funny,” Polk Muldoon wheezed.

  “Two philosphers,” said Ringo.

  They readied to ride. “No tricks, bandido,” Curly Bill warned.

  “Even if I was so ungracious as to turn against my saviours, I have no desire to be shot,” Gila said.

  “Keep thinking like that and we’ll get along fine.”

  Off they rode.

  THIRTEEN

  Three a.m. The dead of night hour, halfway between midnight and dawn.

  Tombstone was quiet as it ever got, which was not necessarily so quiet. Beneath the surface of the earth mining went on without slackening, the night shift of the big mining concerns going about its digging, tunneling, rock breaking, and clearing. The business of extracting silver ore from below was a twenty-four-hour endeavor.

  A number of saloons, gambling halls, and brothels continued to operate, though even the appetites of the flesh seemed to slow and ebb at this bleak hour—the hour when, according to doctor’s reports, most sickly patients expire.

  Clouds had broken up and scattered, baring the moon and stars. There was a freshness and softness to the air which the moisture of the rain had brought. The moon was bright and shining; the eternal stars glittered.

  A handful of drunks wandered the streets, singly and in combination, some silent, others loud and rowdy. There were no lawmen to crack down on them.

  The jailhouse stood stolid and foursquare, seemingly undisturbed, though from time to time muffled shouting and wall banging were heard to emanate from the rear of the building where the cells were.

  There was little traffic on foot or horseback in the area at this hour. If any passersby heard the outbursts, as a penned Assistant Deputy Osgood sought to attract help, they ignored it and moved on.

  Allen Street was more or less deserted, save for the infrequent comings and goings of various night owls.

  The Oriental Saloon and several similar establishments were still doing some business, but the numbers of gamblers, drinkers, and skirt chasers had dwindled down to a hardcore few.

  Lights showed in the front of the ground floor of the Hotel Erle, and behind the curtained windows of some of the guest rooms, but most of the building was dark. The restaurant and barroom were closed; the lobby was abandoned save for a lone occupant, the house detective, who sat in a deep-cushioned armchair reading a weeks-old copy of the Tombstone Epitaph newspaper and smoking a cigar. From time to time, he restored his spirits by nipping from a pocket flask of liquor.

  Hotel manager Mark Fredericks had retired for the night and gone to bed. The front desk was being held down by Dewey, the night clerk, a soft-faced, lumpish man-boy. He sat dozing perched on a stool behind the desk, an elbow on the countertop, upraised palm supporting the side of his head. His face was flushed, his mouth open, and a thread of spittle wetted his chin.

  The second floor was still, quiet. Two of Colonel Davenport’s men were posted in the hall as guards.

  Dean Duane sat outside the door of Room 207, Linda Gordon’s room. He had replaced Riker, who’d gone off shift at midnight. Wes Crawley guarded the door to the back stairs at the far end of the corridor in the rear of the building. The long corridor was straight, allowing the two men to keep each other in view.

  Dean Duane was square built, with a thick, straight torso. He was hatless and wore a lightweight gray suit, white shirt, and black tie. Crawley was similarly attired. Davenport liked his bodyguards to dress like businessmen so they’d be properly attired for his world of banks and boardrooms.

  Duane wore a short-barreled .45 revolver, holstered butt out and worn high on his right hip, up near his waist. He sat in an armless straight-backed chair, rising from time to time to yawn, stretch, and pace the floor to relieve the strain of sitting for so many hours.

  The corridor was unpeopled, apart from the guards, but not unquiet. There were the creakings of the building settling on its foundations, the murmur of voices behind closed hotel room doors, the rushing hiss of gas funneling through pipes to fuel the wall lamps.

  A
little after three, the rear door opened, and a man stepped inside. Wes Crawley rose, facing him. Duane turned his head, looking down the hall to see what it was all about. He stirred with interest. Any interruption to the monotony of guard duty was welcome diversion.

  The newcomer was a tall thin man wearing a white, bib-front kitchen apron. He held a serving tray in both hands. On it was a coffeepot, and some cups and saucers. Duane’s mouth watered. He hungered for a taste of some strong black fresh brew.

  The waiter or kitchen help, for so the newcomer most obviously seemed to be, held the coffeepot by the handle in one hand, balancing the serving tray on the upraised palm of his other hand.

  He poured a cup of coffee. Crawley took the cup and saucer and sat down. He held the coffee cup in one hand, while his other held the saucer on top of one of his thighs. He nodded to Duane, grinning. His atttitude said: This is all right.

  Crawley sat drinking coffee while the waiter came up the hall to Dean Duane. The waiter was a regular beanpole, thought Duane. He was balding, with a thin, horseshoe-shaped fringe of brown hair framing a shiny, gleaming scalp. Beneath the white bib apron, he wore a faded, red flannel shirt and striped gray trousers tucked into knee-high boot tops. Shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows.

  He held the tray in front of him in both hands. On it, he had placed the gleaming, silver-plated coffeepot, some cups and saucers, and some white folded linen napkins.

  Dean Duane rose, the full rich aroma of coffee tingling in his nostrils. His stomach rumbled.

  “Compliments of the hotel, sir. The manager thought you might like some coffee,” the waiter said.

  “I sure would!” Duane enthused.

  The waiter shifted his grip, balancing the tray on an upraised palm. He poured coffee from the pot into a cup, filling it. There was no cream, nor sugar. In the West, men took their coffee hot, black, and strong.

  Duane took a cup in hand. The cup was a big oversized mug, a man-sized cup of coffee. Duane took a sip, tasting it. “That’s good,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Duane sat down, steaming coffee cup in one hand, saucer in the other. The waiter hovered around, standing so that he blocked Duane’s view of Crawley.

  The coffee was hot. Duane sat there sipping it. The waiter stood in place, not moving on. Duane frowned. What was he waiting around for, a tip? Fat chance!

  He looked up at the waiter. “Something you want?”

  “Perhaps you’d care for a napkin, sir. Don’t want to risk staining your clothes,” the waiter said.

  “Good idea.”

  The waiter’s bony hand reached under a folded napkin on the tray, coming out with a derringer. He pointed it at Duane’s forehead. His body was turned so Crawley at the other end of the hall could see nothing amiss. The derringer was a pearl-handled, double-barreled, over-under job bearing two shots with two triggers.

  “Blink and you’re dead,” the waiter said.

  He stepped back, turning his head so he could see Crawley and Duane at the same time. His body screened the derringer from Crawley’s view. He nodded several times. Crawley thought he was nodding at him and raised his cup in a friendly salute.

  Crawley was unaware that the rear door was open a crack. Somebody stood behind the door looking through the crack, watching for the go-ahead signal, which had now been given.

  The door opened and a man came out, a short, slight man holding a big knife. He came up behind Crawley and slashed the knife across his throat, cutting it. Blood jetted, the knife wielder nimbly stepping back to avoid it.

  Cup and saucer fell from Crawley’s hands, dropping to the carpeted floor, which muffled the noise of their fall. Crawley clasped both hands to his throat, making choking noises. His legs straightened, jerking.

  The knife man stepped in, thrusting the blade into Crawley’s heart. It was a fatal blow, bringing instant death. Crawley stiffened, then slumped, sagging. It all happened very quickly and with minimal disturbance.

  “Good Lord!” Duane said, gasping.

  “Shut up,” the waiter said. “Do as you’re told and you’ll get out of this alive. Otherwise, you’ll get what your friend got.”

  He was the “stringbean” whom Sam Two Wolves had seen earlier that night in the hotel barroom with Black Angus gang stalwart Sid Felder. His name was Preston “Slim” Giles.

  The role of waiter came easily to him because he’d been a waiter once, some time back when he was serving an Iowa prison term for armed robbery. He was competent and well-spoken and he’d been made a trustee, serving the warden as his personal valet and manservant. It was an easy job and he’d done his time without a hitch. But that was long ago.

  A third man entered via the rear door: Sid Felder, thorough-going badman and long-time Angus Jones associate. A burly man, he had wavy black hair with a widow’s peak, thick black eyebrows, and mustache. He wore a six-gun in a black leather holster.

  The knife wielder was Tom Bardo, a Missouri outlaw. He was slight, sharp featured, with a pointed nose and chin. He had long stringy hair and a wispy mustache and chin whiskers. He wore a gun, but the blade was his specialty.

  Slim Giles motioned with the derringer. “Either barrel could blow your brains out, so don’t try anything funny,” he warned Dean Duane. “Set the cup and saucer down on the floor. Good. Stand up.”

  Duane rose shakily, his complexion leaden under a sheen of cold sweat. Slim set the tray down on the flat seat bottom, keeping Duane covered with the derringer. He stepped in, pressing the barrels to the side of Duane’s head while reaching under the guard’s coat to pull the gun from his holster.

  Stepping back, he leveled both guns on the guard. “Turn around and face the wall.”

  Duane turned in time to see Tom Bardo holding the rear door open while Sid Felder hooked his meaty hands under Wes Crawley’s arms and dragged his corpse through the doorway onto the landing. “Don’t kill me . . . please,” Duane breathed.

  “Shut the hell up.”

  Duane stood facing the wall to the left of the door to Room 207. Slim pocketed the derringer, transferring Duane’s short, stubby, solid-built, big-bore revolver to his right hand. He crashed the gun butt against Duane’s skull, clubbing him behind the back of his ear.

  Duane grunted, sagging at the knees. Slim struck again, harder. Duane’s eyes rolled up in his head, whites showing. He started to fold up.

  Slim’s free hand collared him at the back of the neck. He was thin but wiry, with surprising strength. He eased Duane down to the floor in a heap. Duane was limp, a deadweight.

  Slim looked around warily. All was clear, with nobody sticking their head outside their room door to investigate. Just as well for them because if they had, Slim would have blown it off for them.

  Sid Felder and Tom Bardo came down the hall, guns in hand. Bardo was slight and wore moccasins, his passage raising barely a whisper. Felder was big, and heavyset, but lightfooted, moving as stealthily as Bardo.

  Felder reached for the door handle of Room 207, his gun leveled hip high. The door was unlocked, handle turning under his hand. He eased the door open. Within, the anteroom was empty, a table lamp burning. The bedroom door was closed.

  Felder stepped back, making eye contact with Bardo. “Take care of the girl and anybody with her,” he rasped, low voiced. “Try not to make any noise, but shoot if you must. We’ll blast our way out of here if we have to.”

  Bardo nodded, pale eyes shining. His knife was in a sheath worn under his left arm. It had antler-plated handles, a foot-long, razor-sharp blade, and a wicked, slightly curved point. He’d wiped it clean after using it on Crawley, but some red spots showed on the guard and handle.

  He padded into the anteroom, noiselessly. Felder stood outside the room door, looking in, watching him. Slim Giles stood with gun drawn, serving as lookout.

  “Go with Bardo,” Felder whispered.

  “What for? He knows what to do. He needs no help from me,” Slim said.

&
nbsp; “He likes to use that knife too much. Make sure he finishes the gal off fast with no nonsense. I’ll keep watch.”

  Slim swore, but moved to obey. He entered the anteroom. Bardo had the bedroom door open a hand’s-breadth and was looking in as Slim’s shadow fell on him.

  Bardo looked over his shoulder, face alive with unholy delight. “Room’s dark, the gal’s alone, in bed sleeping.”

  He holstered his gun and drew his knife, its mirror-bright surfaces gleaming with reflected light.

  “Sid says finish her off fast,” Slim hissed.

  “Sure, sure,” Bardo muttered, opening the door.

  Slim stayed behind. He was a robber, gunman, and killer, but even he drew the line somewhere. He didn’t have the stomach to watch Bardo at his work.

  Bardo eased sideways through the partly opened door into the dark bedroom. The sole source of light was lamplight from the anteroom. Bardo moved deeper into the room, out of Slim’s sight.

  After a pause, there were the sounds of a slight disturbance, one that might have gone unnoticed except for those like Slim who knew what to listen for. A soft scuffle, the sound of a blow, a stifled gasp—silence.

  Slim waited for Bardo to emerge, his pounding heartbeats measuring out the time.

  It seemed like a long time but Slim reckoned that was just nerves. More time passed, while Slim fidgeted.

  “Psst!” That was from Sid Felder in the hall, glaring into the anteroom. He scowled, thick eyebrows frowning fiercely. “Hurry up!” he urged in a hoarse whisper.

  “Bardo’s still in there,” Slim said.

  “What’s the stall?” Felder asked.

  Slim shrugged, holding his palms up in an I-don’t-know gesture.

  “Get him,” Felder said.

  “I don’t want to get him riled,” Slim said, looking hapless and helpless. “He’s real mean with a knife in his hand—”

  “What do you think I sent you in for, to wring your hands? Get moving and haul his ass out of there!”

  “Oke,” Slim said. He tiptoed away, walking on the toes of his boots, giving him an unnatural stilted gait, at once both sinister and comic.