By eleven, the drunks were falling from the bar stools. Just about when I was ready to drag some of them to jail, their pals would escort the wobbly-legged ones to their ponies, hoist them up, settle them in the saddle, hand them the reins, and slap the horses. The barn-sour beasts would head home, with the loaded cowboy reeling like a dying top onboard but managing to hang on from sheer instinct.
“Guess that takes care of that,” one of the ranch hands said, eyeing me. “Saves you a trip uptown.”
“I guess it does,” I said. “And there’s no way that feller’s gonna freeze up with that much booze in him.”
Between eleven and midnight that was becoming routine. All I had to do was stand around while the cowboys loaded other limp cowboys onto their nags and sent them into the night.
But at eleven thirty there was a fistfight at McGivers; two real mean drunks were flailing each other while the crowd watched silently. Usually the crowd howled and encouraged, but this time no one was doing that. They were too intent on downing the last redeye they’d see for a long, long time.
I stepped in and separated the two. They were both too loaded to resist, though one bounced a fist off of my cheek, which bruised me some.
“Taking you in,” I said. But neither of the pugilists rose, and it became plain that they couldn’t rise and that walking uptown was not in the cards. And it wasn’t worth it.
“Stretch ’em out on the planks and let ’em cool down,” I said. “And when they cool down, put them on their nags. I want them outa here.”
Some of the cowboys seemed happy to oblige. They hauled the carcasses outside, onto the plank sidewalks, and laid them down side by side. Both had bloody noses and one had a split lip, and the other was missing a piece of earlobe. Both had sore knuckles. They lay on their backs, staring up at the night sky, enjoying the ribald comments of the crowd.
Several cowboys from rival ranches hung around insulting the hapless warriors, which was fine. The bloodied men sprawled on the boards had earned it. Most everyone headed back inside for a final drink, and the barkeeps were pouring doubles even before being asked.
Time sure was running short. I peered around, hunting for trouble, hunting for those vigilantes, but I didn’t see an armed man on Saloon Row. I wondered whether to get Rusty so the two of us could control the mob. But I decided against it. I wanted Rusty back at the jail. It got to be ten minutes to midnight, the brink of the new year, the beginning of prohibition in Puma County, and still nothing happened. I had it figured now. All them drinkers and saloonkeepers, they would do nothing at all. Let the good times roll.
But then about two minutes ahead of the hour, according to my pocket watch, a platoon of men, all in dark clothing, flowed like India ink into the district, each armed with a shotgun and revolver. Where the hell they came from I couldn’t imagine. I headed toward the bunch, but even as I approached the platoon fell apart, two men posting themselves at each saloon, shotguns at the ready. It was an army maneuver, plotted out in advance. And suddenly there was a hell of a silence on the street and a dampening of sound in the bright-lit saloons.
I hastened to the ones nearest me.
“Come along now. There’s a law against carrying arms in Doubtful,” I said. “You head for the jailhouse. Either that or surrender those guns. Right now. On the ground.”
They ignored me.
The others ignored me. I felt strong hands clasp me from behind.
“Don’t resist, Sheriff. There’s a ticket to hell waiting for you if you do.”
It sure was getting quiet in all the saloons. A few men peered through the glass into the dark street.
“Is it midnight yet?” one of the dark-clad men asked.
Another, his face shadowed, pulled out the watch and tilted it toward the light spilling from the saloon. “Exactly,” the man said. “Happy New Year.”
“You’re resisting arrest,” I said, feeling like I was addressing a fence post.
“You stay out of it, and you might live,” the shadowed man said. “We’re just helping you enforce the law, Sheriff. Call us a posse. Call us friends. Call us the strong arm of the law.”
“I’ll call you men in big trouble,” I said.
Then another strange thing happened. Some guys with megaphones showed up. They opened each saloon door, lifted their megaphones, and addressed the revelers. But it was so quiet in the saloons that they didn’t need megaphones at all.
“Head for the alley, watch the fireworks,” the ones with the megaphones were yelling. “See the biggest show in town.”
No one in the saloons moved. They stood at the bar, drinks in hand. They sat at the tables, drinks in front of them. The barkeeps stared, uncertain about it all.
“Watch the outhouse fly,” yelled one with a megaphone. “And then watch the saloons fly.”
That didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t do much about it, not with cold steel pressing in my back and two or three men pinning my arms. Finally, slowly, a few men headed for the rear alley, then more, and finally a hundred, from all the saloons lining the alley behind Wyoming Street. The men in black pushed me down a gap between saloons to let me see whatever was coming.
They sure were quiet. This was the quietest New Year’s Eve ever seen in Doubtful.
“As the outhouse goes, so goes the saloons,” said one guy with a megaphone.
A light flared near the biggest outhouse back there, a four-holer behind the Last Chance. Then a sizzle, sparks, a moving flame, eating its way through snow and muck, heading straight for the outhouse.
And then kaboom. A blinding flash, ear-splitting noise, white light, the outhouse rising into the night, falling into a thousand bits, stuff splattering everyone around. I got hit with some of that crap, and it didn’t smell good. It dripped down my cheek and fell off my hands.
The shattered outhouse rose high and tumbled back to earth, even as the roar quieted down.
“Holy crap!” someone yelled.
The powdermen had been busy after all.
“Now, get out of the saloons. They’re all ready to blow,” yelled one guy with a megaphone.
“Jaysas,” said a cowboy. He raced toward Wyoming Street to collect his ringy horse and get out. Then others were following. Soon it turned into a rout, those remaining in the saloons busting through the door to get out, running for their panicky horses, running as fast as their wobbly legs and booze-soaked lungs could take them. They climbed awkwardly into the stirrups and kicked their steeds away. The men in black didn’t stop them; they waved the cowboys on until there were only the echoes of hoofbeats in the night.
That was the durndest thing. One minute three hundred cowboys were ringing in New Year’s Eve; a few minutes later the whole lot were collecting their horses and getting the hell out of Doubtful. It hardly took five minutes. Horses with riders on them vanished into the night.
“All right, you barkeeps, you get out, any still inside the saloons,” the megaphone man yelled. “And don’t try to be a hero. There’s DuPont under every saloon, ready to blow.”
One by one the reluctant barkeeps filed out of their saloons, some rubbing their hands on their bar aprons, most of them looking weary and defeated. The saloons looked forlorn, lamps guttering in the flow of cold air. Half-emptied glasses everywhere, a strange sadness issuing from them.
“Everyone out?”
“No, there’s one in McGivers.”
The shadowed men peered inside, and I did, too. Young Addison McGivers stood defiantly behind the bar, his arms folded, his white apron bright in the lamplight, unbudging.
“You, get out. The fuse gets lit at the count of three. One . . . two . . . three . . .”
A light flared around the back, on the alley. The fuse caught and hissed. McGivers saw the spitting sparks snake toward his uncle’s saloon and bolted, making the street just as the saloon lifted bodily into the night sky and settled down in ruins. The explosion echoed through all of Doubtful, an odd, hollow thunder. The percussion slappe
d me hard. The tired old saloon settled back on its lot, a pile of rubble, dark in the night. McGivers stood in the street, tears in his eyes. It was over. Swiftly, the men in black pulled out hatchets and swept into each saloon, smashed bottles, crushed glass, chopped open casks and kegs, raided storerooms. In only a few minutes there was no spiritous drink left anywhere on Saloon Row. Prohibition had arrived right on schedule. The inkblot platoon slipped silently into the night, taking their wagons with them, and at the last they freed me.
“You see?” said one shadowed man. “We did it all for you. And not a life lost.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Well, Doubtful, Wyoming, wasn’t the same anymore. And wouldn’t be. The town woke up on New Year’s Day a different place. There wasn’t a saloon operating. There wasn’t a lick of whiskey to be had, at least in a public place. It was so serene you’d hardly know anyone lived there. There wasn’t any place for people to gather, so people pretty much stayed home. They could sit around the potbellied stoves in the stores and gab a little, but it wasn’t like having a little redeye with your friends at the old clubhouse on Saloon Row.
Rumor had it that some of those madams who closed their bars a little before midnight had socked away some booze somewhere, but no one could prove it. As for the saloons, they sat forlorn, windows punched out, letting the snow and dust drift in and cover a sea of broken glass and busted kegs littering the floors. Some of the saloon men packed up and left Doubtful. One or two rummaged through the busted saloons, trying to salvage a thing or two, but they were mostly out of luck. It was like picking up after an earthquake.
It sure was quiet. The cowboys didn’t come in much, or buy much, or hang around town much. That worried the merchants, and some of them were unhappy with the Women’s Temperance Union, fearing they’d lost trade. But others argued that Doubtful was the only place for the ranching people to go. They were mostly five or seven or ten miles out, but if they went over to Sweetwater County, or some other county seat, they’d have to ride their nags a good fifty miles. So there was no need to worry. And besides, the cathouses were still in business, and that was enough to lure the drovers off the ranches.
But it was still a wait-and-see time. The merchants were eyeing their empty tills and getting irritable, and wondering whether Doubtful would survive. But of course it would. It was the county seat, with a courthouse and all. Why would it disappear?
Amos Grosbeak was happy as could be, mostly because Eve Grosbeak told him to be happy. He wandered into my office a day or two after it was all over and settled in the chair across from my desk.
“Well, son, you did it. You got us switched over to prohibition without any loss, except for McGivers, and that wasn’t any loss. No one got hurt. Every saloon in town shut down within minutes of midnight. The law slid into place real peaceable and quiet. You sure have my support for sheriff from now on.”
“Well, it wasn’t my doing, sir. My ma, she always said don’t take credit when you don’t earn it.”
“Oh, pshaw, it was your doing. You didn’t even have to put some drunk into these cells that night. The supervisors are going to meet soon, and I’ll propose that you get a two-dollar-a-month raise, paid with our eternal gratitude.”
“You should cut my salary because I got nothing to do,” I said.
“Oh, you’ll have some things to do. There’ll be bootleg saloons springing up out in the hills, and you’ll need to ride out there and shut them down. You can’t expect a major change like prohibition without some effort to circumvent the law.”
“Well, that’ll be better than sitting here in a sleepy town playing checkers.”
And playing checkers beside the office stove was about all I had to do as Doubtful slumbered through the winter. On my patrols, I made a point of hiking through Saloon Row, which stood quiet and forlorn now, the wind whistling through the sagging buildings. That outhouse blast and the one that leveled McGivers blew out the windows there, and now Saloon Row harbored nothing but rats and vagrants.
Mayor George Waller had a different viewpoint entirely. He complained that the city revenue of Doubtful had been cut in half. Saloon licenses paid for most of the town’s budget; the only income remaining was the bordello licenses that the city collected every three months.
“I guess we’ll have to begin with some property taxes now,” he said here and there, which evoked horror. No one wanted that. Some businessmen proposed that the city invite another three or four madams to set up shop so the city would have more income. And others in town suggested that each girl should have to get a license, and at fifty dollars a quarter, that would make up for the lost saloon income. But other shrewd businessmen said that would only drive the girls away, and then where would Doubtful be?
It was a dilemma, all right. Some of the good folks rejoiced because Doubtful was dry as a desert, but there were others who sorrowed, who talked of furtive trips to Laramie to stock up on booze. It sure was a sorrow for some. And there was the town drunk to think about, too. His name was Rat Ryan, and I had let him sleep it off in a cell many times. But now Rat was sober, and shaking, and unhappy, and threatening to go somewhere else. He’d been a swamper in the saloons, cadging drinks, mopping the floors, sleeping on billiard tables. But now he was a trembling, tear-eyed old fool, wandering dazed through Doubtful. I got to feeling so sorry for him I offered Ryan a stagecoach ticket to Laramie, but Rat just cried a little and wandered away.
The cowboys did return after a while, mostly to visit the girls, and it was rumored that the girls sometimes poured a shot for their most trusted customers. So that brought the ranch hands in, and they did spend a nickel or two in the stores, but it wasn’t the same. They spent a lot more cash when Saloon Row was rolling.
One February day, I ran into Eve Grosbeak and Manilla Twining on Wyoming Street just as they were coming out of the Emporium carrying some gingham for dresses.
“Oh, Sheriff, this is so sublime!” said Eve. “Doubtful is peaceful and safe, and soon there’ll be little children playing in vacant yards, and more Sunday school picnics, and nothing to worry about. I tell you what, Sheriff; the day will come when Doubtful won’t even need a full-time lawman.”
“Yeah, well, ma’am, that’s fine for you, but not for me.”
“Dear boy, we’ve been thinking about you,” Manilla said. “Have you found a young lady to spark?”
“No, ma’am, Doubtful’s short of young ladies. Least your kind of young lady.”
“Well, we think you should get married. That’s all you need. Once you’re married, you won’t be restless anymore. Have you tried to make yourself more presentable?”
“No, ma’am, I got the same old bad habits.”
“That’s what worries us, Mr. Pickens. You come over to Eve’s this afternoon, and we’ll work on that. We want you to be happy, and eligible. A young woman always knows when a young man is eligible.”
“Well, I’ll give her some thought,” I said, and tipped my hat.
But when afternoon rolled around, I had a choice between playing checkers with myself or going over there to Eve Grosbeak’s nice little place on the north side, and getting past the peacocks and getting a lesson again. That beat checkers.
I opened the picket fence and was attacked by the male peacocks, but a good kick or two sent them off. They considered me a rival, even though I wasn’t inclined toward female peacocks. Eve Grosbeak let me in at once, and I followed her through the sunny, fragrant house to a sewing room off on one side, where she and Manilla were cutting their new blue gingham along the patterns that were pinned to the fabric. It sure was a female sort of room, white wicker, big windows, and sewing stuff all over. I had never been in a room like that before and hardly knew what to make of it. But females had to do something in life, and maybe this was what they did. The room sort of solved a mystery about them.
They eyed me appreciatively. “Would you like some Earl Grey, Sheriff?” Eve asked.
“Is that some scotch?”
“There’s nothing better for me right now than some redeye, or the like,” I said, meaning every syllable.
“Poor dear. You live with low expectations. We want you to learn what’s available to you, so you live with high expectations. Spirits won’t do you any good. A wife would. You need to take a wife, Sheriff.”
“Well, it’s crossed my mind, but I can’t afford just me on a sheriff salary, much less me and a woman.”
“You’ll find that wives save you money. Think what you’ll save not having to spend a nickel on spirits. Or not having to spend two dollars whenever you walk into, ah, one of those places.”
“You can have a five-dollar pleasure for free if you’re married,” Manilla said.
“Or a ten-dollar one,” Eve added. “Of course, it’s up to you to find the right woman.”
“My ma always said I was no good with money.”
They walked around me as if I were a dummy in a store window, studying and nodding, and pointing. It sure made me curious.
“How long has it been, Cotton?”
“That’s kind of personal, ma’am.”
“I mean, how long since you washed your long johns?”
“Since Thanksgiving, ma’am. Got the pair at the Emporium.”
“We think you need to wash them. You can’t go sparking in dirty long johns.”
“Oh, they’re good to spring, ma’am.”
“No, Cotton. I can see grime peeking through. You can’t go sparking a girl until you dress for it.”
“I didn’t know you had to be dressed to spark,” I said.
Manilla laughed like a tinkling bell.
“You step behind that screen there and hand us your long johns, and we’ll wash them,” Eve said.
“I couldn’t do that. Not in front of women. And it’d take a long time to dry. I’d be stuck here for two days, bare-assed.”
“No, no, no. Mr. Grosbeak has several old pairs, and I’ll give you one, and we’ll wash yours and return it to you in a few days.”
Wyoming Slaughter Page 10