Hanging in Wild Wind

by Ralph Cotton

  “They’re all pretty, far as I’m concerned,” the old man said.

  “But this one, did she have nice, you know. . . .” He cupped his gloved hands at his chest and jiggled them up and down.

  “They all have nice, you know . . . as far as I’m concerned,” the old man said.

  “Where is this woman prisoner?” Paco asked.

  “Where do you suppose she would be?” the old man said flatly. When he saw the dark look come over Paco’s face, he pointed his torch toward the new jail and sheriff’s office down the empty street.

  Paco and Buckles looked just in time to see the single rider in the silver-gray sombrero ride out of sight into the darkness toward the badlands trail. “I’ll be double damned and salted,” said Huey Buckles.

  “Is that the ranger?” Paco asked, squinting at the darkness.

  “Yep,” said Buckles, “that’s him—the one who killed Junior Lake and his pa. He always wears a gray sombrero. Right, old man?”

  “So the story goes,” the old man said. For the first time he looked the two up and down. “Say, you fellows aren’t road agents yourselves, are you?”

  “Road agents . . . I like that,” Paco chuckled again. “Hold your torch over here so I can see.”

  “See what?” the old man asked.

  “See where to kick this door in,” said Paco. “A road agent does not ride this far and not get something to drink.” He drew his Colt, pointed it at the old man and wagged it toward the locked door.

  From the boardwalk out in front of the restaurant three blocks away, Bell had heard a crash come from the cantina. He stepped into the street for a better look and saw the light of the torch flicker through the dusty front window. What the hell? Feeling his bare hip where his holstered Colt should be, he started to turn and go to the sheriff’s office and get the big gun. But then he reminded himself that whoever it was inside the Belleza Grande, he shouldn’t need a gun to roust them out. He walked on with determination along the darkened street.

  Inside the cantina, Paco and Huey Buckles stood at the bar with a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses between them. Standing beside them, the old pot lighter held the torch up for them to see by. Even as Paco filled two glasses for Buckles and himself, he kept his gun trained on the old man.

  “I don’t know that it’s a good idea, us being in here when there’s railroad lawmen in town,” Buckles said. But his concern didn’t keep him from upending the shot glass to his dry lips and draining it.

  “We saw the ranger leave, Huey,” said Paco. “Railway detectives don’t give a damn about a man opening a cantina to get himself a cut or two of whiskey.” He tipped his shot glass as if in salute, then tossed back his drink in one gulp.

  “I hope you’re right,” said Buckles, grinning as he refilled both glasses.

  Turning to the old man, Paco asked, “What is your name, old one?”

  “Merlin Fletcher,” said the torch holder. “Most folks call me Gabby.” Holding the torch in one hand, he laid his other hand on the bar and gestured toward the bottle. “Suppose I said could take myself a swig? Holding this thing cocked up like this builds a thirst.”

  “Get Mr. Fletcher a glass, Huey,” said Paco, staring at the old man with a harsh grin.

  While Buckles snagged a shot glass from a stack along the inside edge of the bar, out front, Bell eased up onto the boardwalk and peeped in through the dusty window. He watched the ragged Comanchero pour a glass of whiskey and stand it in front of Gabby Fletcher. He took note of the pistol in the Mexican’s hand, its barrel aimed loosely in Gabby’s direction.

  “Sonsabitches,” he growled to himself.

  As he slid the filled shot glass closer to his waiting fingertips, Paco said to the old man, “Tell me, Gabby Fletcher—how are things going here? I mean, with Western Railways setting up an office, a rail spur and such.”

  “Going well,” said the old man. He picked up the glass, tossed back half its contents and let out a whiskey hiss.

  “Good, good. That is good to hear,” said Paco, eyeing the old man with scrutiny. He leaned in closer and asked privately, “And what of the money? Has Western Railways sent in any money?”

  “Money? What kind of money?” The old man raised the glass, drained it, set it down and pushed it back toward the bottle with a bony fingertip.

  “Oh, you are cagey as a fox. You are, my friend,” Paco laughed under his breath. He refilled the shot glass and shoved it back over to Fletcher, who let the torch sag a little as he relaxed in a whiskey glow. “I am talking about operating money. Big money. The kind of money it takes for a company to buy silver from the hill mines and transport it out of these badlands.”

  “Oh, that money,” Fletcher said. He appeared to put some thought into the matter. “I recall hearing that some money come into Wild Wind a while back. I can’t say how much it was or—”

  “That’ll do, Gabby,” Bell interrupted. He stood inside the open doorway amid broken planks that had flown off the frame when Paco put his big boot to the thick oak door. “One man should never discuss another man’s money. That’s the way I was raised to believe in Nebraska.”

  Paco and Buckles spun toward the big railway detective chief. Both stood with their guns pointing at him. But upon seeing that the man was unarmed, Paco let his gun slump and said, “Ah, Nebraska. Tell me, did they ever find out where they are?”

  Bell let the insult slide past him. “This cantina is closed,” he said. “Not that it would have meant much to you two scarecrows.”

  “Scarecrows?” Paco looked himself and Buckles up and down. Then he looked back at Bell with a wizened grin. Raising a finger for emphasis he said, “You know what? I don’t think you come here to be sociable, my friend.”

  “You’re smarter than you look half-breed,” said Bell, glaring at the two. “Gabby, get yourself out of the way. This is a matter for the law.”

  “The law?” Paco mused. “I do not see a badge on you, my friend. In fact, I do not even see a gun.”

  “I don’t have a badge,” said Bell. He patted the lapel of his coat. “I have a letter.”

  “A letter?” said Paco, cocking the Colt in his hand. “You are a very brave man or an idiot, coming here with no badge, no gun.” His brow furrowed; he shook his head. “Just a letter?”

  “That’s right. A letter,” said Bell. “It tells everybody that Western Railways Transportation is now the law in Wild Wind.” As he spoke, he looked around at the debris on the floor at his feet. “As far as a gun, I’ve got one in the sheriff’s office.” He stepped forward, bent over and picked up a three-foot-long oak plank. He hefted it in his broad hands and inspected it.

  “In the sheriff’s office?” said Paco, dismissing the plank as a threat. His smile melted into a serious look. “But, senor, we have ours right here, as you can see.” He wagged his gun, as if the stocky, red-bearded detective hadn’t yet noticed it.

  “Jesus, look out!” Buckles shouted, seeing the detective suddenly charge forward like a raging buffalo, head down, gripping the plank like a baseball bat.

  Paco fired his already cocked and aimed pistol. But just as he fired, Bell zigzagged quickly, swinging the rough, hard plank. The whistling plank smacked the gun from Paco’s hand as it fired wildly into the ceiling. The gun flew across the cantina before it ever hit the floor. The second swing slapped Paco across his face with a sickening sound. He spun along the bar edge as Gabby Fletcher jumped back out of his way, his torch flickering in hand.

  Buckles was stunned and frozen in place by the speed and fierceness of Bell’s attack. Before he could react, Bell’s plank slapped him sideways to the floor. His gun flew from his hand. Both outlaws lay prone and helpless. But not for long. Although addled from the blow to his face, Paco managed to shake his head clear and scramble along the dirty floor. Bell gave chase, swatting him with the plank as if he were a roach.

  Behind Bell, Buckles recovered quickly in spite of his throbbing jaw and the insistent ringing in his ea
rs. While Bell swatted Paco, Buckles hurled himself forward atop Bell’s broad shoulders in an attempt to bring the man down.

  “Hang on, Huey!” Paco shouted, coming to his feet, snatching a knife from his boot well.

  Bell’s plank flew from his hand.

  Buckles hung on, but it was like riding an enraged grizzly. Bell slung him back and forth as if he were a rag doll, growling loudly, reaching back over his shoulders and clawing at the outlaw’s eyes.

  “Kill him, Paco!” Buckles shouted, seeing the flash of steal in the half-breed’s hand.

  But Bell saw the big knife too. As Paco made a killing lunge at his chest, Bell spun quickly, putting Buckles between himself and the big blade. Paco couldn’t stop himself from sinking the blade deep into Buckles’ haunch. Gabby Fletcher stood watching raptly, a shot glass raised halfway to his lips, his torch still in his hand, casting an eerie, flickering glow over the melee.

  With the screech of a wounded mountain cat, Buckles fell to the floor, clutching the hilt of the big knife sticking out of his bloody rear.

  With the knife gone, Paco reached for a chair. Bell saw the chair swing into the air above Paco’s head. He snatched the torch from Fletcher’s hand and swung it back and forth at the half-breed. “Come on, outlaw! I’ll burn you to the ground!”

  Paco backed away; he’d had enough. But as he dropped the chair and headed out the door at a run, Bell turned and looked down at the crawling, screaming Huey Buckles. “Take this, Comanchero!” he said. He jammed the fiery torch down on Buckles’ bloody behind.

  Buckles screamed loud and long. He scrambled to his feet on his way out the door, both hands slapping at the flames licking from his trouser seat up to the back of his ragged shirt.

  “And don’t come back!” Bell shouted out onto the dark street as the two hurried into their saddles and beat a retreat out of town. Turning to Fletcher, Bell said, “What did you tell them, Gabby?”

  “Nothing,” said the old man.

  No sooner had the two outlaws cut off the main street, out of the light of the oil pots lining the streets, than Longworth came running, rifle in hand. “Chief Bell,” he said, “are you all right?”

  Bell brushed a hand along his coat sleeve. “I’m fine, Detective. Those two will think twice before they ever ride back into Wild Wind.”

  Chapter 12

  No sooner had the two outlaws ridden out of town into the darkness than they stopped alongside a thin creek and dropped from their saddles. “I can’t go on like this,” Buckles moaned. He limped out into the shallow creek and squatted down, letting the cool water run across his bloody, scorched behind. “I need a doctor, bad.”

  “Yes, I see you do,” said Paco, “and we will get you to one.”

  Buckles stopped moaning and looked at him in the purple light of a half-moon. “We will?”

  “Yes, we will,” said Paco, staring back toward town, a trickle of blood running down his swollen jaw.

  “Where?” Buckles asked.

  “In Wild Wind,” said Paco.

  “Ride back there? Are you out of your mind?” Buckles asked. “We don’t even have guns. They’re both lying back there on the cantina floor.”

  “Yes, they are. And I am not leaving this shit hole without my Colt,” said Paco.

  Buckles watched him pull a sawed-off shotgun from under the bedroll behind his saddle.

  “Nobody treats me this way and lives to tell about it,” Paco said with a slight lisp, owing to his swollen jaw. He broke open the shotgun and checked it. Seeing both barrels loaded, he clicked it shut. “I am a man. I will live like one or I will die like one.”

  Buckles thought about it as the water took some of the sting out of his burning rear end. “Hell, I hear you,” he said. “Count me in.” He dipped cold water with his cupped hand and held it to his jaw.

  Back in Wild Wind, Longworth gathered the two Colts from the floor of the cantina with his good hand and stuffed each of them down into his belt. From the open doorway he stared out into the darkness in the direction the two outlaws had taken out of town.

  “I hope you’re right, Chief Bell,” he said, “about them not coming back.”

  “Oh, I’m right. You can count on it, Detective,” said Bell. He stood beside Longworth and squared his broad shoulders. Gabby Fletcher stood to the side and watched, his torch still in hand. “Saddle trash like those two—they’ll go off and lick their wounds. They’ll vow to each other that they’re coming back. They’ll make bold threats between themselves. But they won’t show their faces here. Trust me on this.”

  Longworth was doubtful, but he kept his doubts to himself. “You know more about these kinds of men than I do, Chief.”

  “That’s right, I do,” Bell said immodestly. “What it comes down to is, they’re cowards . . . men like these.” He gave a confident smile. “Truth be told, I almost wish they would come back. I’ve still got some bark on.”

  As the two stood watching, the waitress from the restaurant walked back across the street toward the sheriff’s office. “There goes Shelly to get the dishes. I best go help her out some,” said Longworth.

  “No, wait here,” said Bell. “The feed and waste slots in these new cells make it easy for anybody to take care of prisoners.” He grinned. “Unless you’re interested in helping her out some other way. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

  Longworth felt embarrassed. “No, Chief, it’s strictly business for me. We’ve got too much going on here for me to take on a romantic interest in a woman.”

  “Whatever you say, Detective,” said Bell. “She is a little on the homely side, I have to admit.” He took out a cigar and stuck it in his mouth. “As to this town, I’ve got it under control.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand,” said Longworth.

  “I know I demand a lot of the so-called physical work from you. But it’s me who takes care of the most important work, the thinking and planning. I keep it all laid out nice and proper, right up here.” He tapped a finger to the side of his head. “I hope you’re paying attention to everything I’m teaching you.” He took out a long match, struck it and lit his cigar.

  “I am, Chief. Most certainly,” said Longworth.

  “That’s good, Detective,” said Bell, blowing out a stream of gray smoke. “You need to learn all you can from me as quickly as possible. You never know when you’ll be called upon to run the show.” He looked around. “And there is no better learning place than here, in town like this. This is still a frontier town—not even a telegraph office yet. Of course, now that Western Railways is invested here that’s all forthcoming.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Longworth, gazing away into the darkness.

  “But be on your toes. Responsibility could be thrust upon you all at once, at any time,” said Bell. “You could wake up one morning and find yourself in charge, with lives depending on you.” He stared at the contemplative young man. “Would you be ready to shoulder such a responsibility?”

  Longworth looked gravely concerned at the prospect of such an occurrence. “I can only hope that I would be, Chief,” he said.

  Bell looked down the street at the wagon of ore samples. “Why don’t you put the wagon away for tonight? We’ll get the samples ready to ship first thing in the morning. I’m retiring early this evening. Don’t let anyone disturb me unless it’s awfully damned important.”

  “Whatever you say, Chief,” said Longworth, relieved that his throbbing hand would have a night off after he completed the chore with the horses and wagon.

  Longworth drove the wagon around to the town livery barn, where he pulled the wagon into a side shed, unhitched the team and led the horses out. He locked the shed doors behind him. Inside the livery barn he grained, watered and rubbed down the team of horses with his good hand. Over an hour had passed by the time he’d finished attending to the horses and led them into separate stalls.

  On his way back to the sheriff’s office he saw the waitress walking away from the closed restaurant wit
h a shawl thrown around her shoulders. The two acknowledged each other with a cordial exchange and continued on their separate ways. Once inside the office, Longworth walked back and checked on the prisoners.

  “How’s the hand, Detective?” Price Cullen asked as Longworth stepped close to the bars, carrying two folded wool blankets over his forearm. His bandaged hand stuck out from beneath them. A dimly lit lantern hung from his good hand.

  “Sore,” Longworth said. He held the blankets over to the feed slot for Price to take. “This is to hang on the bars between the cells for when you need privacy.”

  “Privacy?” Price said. He grinned as he reached and pulled the top blanket in through the slot and looked it over.

  “You know,” said Longworth, nodding toward Kitty in the other cell and lowering his voice almost to a whisper. “When you need to relieve yourselves.”

  “Why, hell,” said Price, “we’re not bashful if she’s not.”

  “I am, though,” Kitty said, hearing them talk through the bars. She stood up walked over to where Longworth stood. “I’ll take that other blanket, Detective,” she said.

  “Why?” said Price. “You’ve got nothing me and Cadden haven’t seen before.”

  “What you and your brother saw was most likely a doe sheep.” Kitty glared at him and said to Longworth, “I hope you’re going to be here tonight on watch, Detective. I don’t trust these two turds even with steel bars between us.”

  Price gave her a nasty grin. “That’s no way to talk to your fellow convicts.”

  “I’ll be on watch all night, ma’am,” Longworth said to Kitty. To Price he said, “Hang the blanket up and act civil. Maybe it’ll make things go better for you with the judge.”

  Cadden ventured forward to the bars and said, “Hold on, Detective. Are you saying you’ll put in a good word for us?”

  “I’m saying I’ll tell the judge whether or not you’ve been good prisoners while you were here,” said Longworth.