West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels

by James Reasoner

  * * *

  "So, what's the plan?" Brett Murphy asked.

  Paul Beardsley faced the brothers from behind his desk, inside his office at the Lucky Strike. Brett had a worried air about him. Clem, by contrast, simply seemed to be confused.

  "I sent him out to Emil's place," said Beardsley, "hoping he'll take care of it."

  "And if he don't?" asked Brett.

  "Then it comes back to us."

  "Can't say I like the sound of that," Brett said. "This Rockwell's s'pose to be a tough one."

  "Well, there's always the alternative."

  "How's that?"

  "You could surrender."

  "Hey, now," Clem chipped in for the first time.

  "Something to think about," said Beardsley. "You could just confess and make it easy all around."

  "Confess to what, exactly?" Brett demanded.

  "Start with murder of the Mormons. Then, there's claim-jumping. They'll likely call that robbery."

  "We sure as hell ain't doin' that," Clem said.

  "And if we did," Brett added, "you'd be goin' down along with us. The judge, too."

  "Would we?"

  "How you figger otherwise?" Brett challenged him.

  "The town's mayor and a justice of the peace," said Beardsley. "Our word, stacked against the two of you. Who do you think a jury will believe?"

  "You're forgettin' ever'body else in town who knows about it," Brett replied.

  "Oh, sure. They'll all be lining up to hang themselves for your sake, will they?"

  "Brett?" Clem sounded worried now.

  "Shut up!" To Beardsley, then: "If Rockwell gets past Jacobs and his men, you know damn well the two of us can't take him on our own."

  "You won't be on your own," Beardsley replied. "My boys'll help you out."

  "Well, hey. You coulda said that in the first place."

  "And you may not have to deal with him at all. There's something else, though."

  "What would that be?"

  "Say that Emil takes him. There's a chance he could be mad about me sending Rockwell out his way."

  "You think?"

  "It's possible. He lets his temper get the best of him, sometimes."

  "So, talk him out of it," Brett said.

  "I'll try, o'course. But if I can't ...."

  "Don't tell me."

  "When you think about it, what's one more?"

  "And all his boys," said Clem.

  "Hirelings. They'll fight if Emil tells 'em to, but if he's gone, who foots the bill?"

  "You take a lot for granted," Brett observed.

  "Somebody in my business needs the knack of reading human nature."

  "Uh-huh. What's that readin' tell you about me and Clem?"

  Instead of calling them a pair of stupid louts, Beardsley replied, "I'd say you're men who want to get ahead in life, no matter what it takes. You see something you want and grab it."

  "Mebbe so." Brett smiled. "Mebbe that's just exac'ly right."

  * * *

  Approaching Tartarus, Rockwell rode wide around the town's north end and came back to the livery from its east side, taking the hostler by surprise. Rockwell instructed him to leave the Appaloosa saddled, while providing feed and water. "Someone comes in asking questions," he advised, "just say I dropped the horse off and you don't know where I went."

  "Tell 'em the truth, in other words," the hostler answered, with a gap-toothed grin.

  "And if there's trouble, be prepared to get the horses out, quick as you can."

  "Sounds like you're countin' on it, Marshal."

  "Let's just say I wouldn't be surprised."

  Rockwell went out the same way he had entered, through the back, and walked along behind the shops on Main Street's eastern side, trailing a lye soap odor to the Chinese laundry. As before, he found a number of Celestials clustered around the backdoor, cooling off, a couple of them smoking bamboo pipes loaded with something that smelled sweeter than tobacco. As he neared them, one ducked back inside the laundry and returned a moment later with the old man who had talked to Rockwell earlier. This time, the elder stood and stared, unspeaking, eyeing the big Sharps cradled in Rockwell's arms.

  "You helped me earlier," said Rockwell. "I appreciate it, and I wanted to advise you that I have some work to do in town."

  "Killing," the old man said.

  "Most likely. None of it's to do with you, but people being what they are, I reckon you deserve a warning."

  "Should we pack and leave?"

  "I won't say that, just yet. You know the townsfolk here better than I do. If it goes against me, do whatever's necessary to protect your people."

  The old man said something to the others in Chinese, a couple of them asking questions. When he'd hushed them, he asked Rockwell, "Will you burn the town?"

  "I thought about it, but I don't like being wasteful. There's some people waiting for me. One way or another, you'll be rid of them. I can't say that whoever takes their place will be a big improvement."

  "More white men."

  "Way of the world," Rockwell allowed. "This world, at least."

  "We cannot help you, Marshal."

  "Wouldn't ask you to," Rockwell replied. "Just wanted you to have a fighting chance if anything goes wrong."

  It felt a bit like blasphemy, suggesting that he might be vulnerable to his foes despite the Prophet's blessing, but he didn't think the old Celestial would buy that angle anyhow. Rockwell did not intend to die in Tartarus, but there was such a thing as tempting Fate with overconfidence that verged on sinful pride.

  Leaving the elder and his people to whatever preparations they might make, he backtracked to the alley where he'd helped the Chinese girl and angled back toward Main Street. Rockwell had planned his order of attack while he was riding back to Tartarus, leaving the carnage at the Silver Beauty mine. He knew Chief Fowler must be neck-deep in the town's corruption, but he had to give the lawman one last chance.

  For what? Maybe redemption, though it didn't fall under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Marshals Service. He would see the chief and let him pick a side, already knowing how the call would likely go. And when he'd made that effort, then it would be time to deal with Beardsley, Walton, and whoever else thought it would be a good idea to back their move on Judgment Day.

  * * *

  Emerging onto Main Street, Rockwell looked both ways and saw no one who seemed to be on watch for him, particularly. There were people going in and out of shops as usual, some loitering in front of the saloons, but nothing in the way of sentries. As for Main Street's windows, Rockwell couldn't say who might be peering through them, waiting for a shot at him, but he was bound to cross the street regardless, come what may.

  He didn't dawdle, passed directly from the alley that concealed him to the sidewalk opposite, then turned left toward the door labeled POLICE, between the Gold Dust and the Lucky Strike. Fowler had called himself the chief, but Rockwell had not seen another badge in town so far, besides his own. He guessed that deputies might be recruited as the need arose, without maintaining any kind of standing force.

  Better for him. He'd likely only have to kill one crooked lawman, then get down to business with the mayor, the justice of the peace, and whoever they used to do their dirty work. The whole town, maybe, if it came to that.

  Whatever happened, Rockwell had a debt to settle, for his nephew and the other murdered Saints.

  And he would likely have to settle it with blood.

  He didn't knock on Fowler's door, just barged on in and found the chief seated behind his desk, a whiskey bottle and a half-filled glass standing in front of him. Fowler looked up, not startled. "So, you're back," he said.

  "Looks like it."

  "Talk to Emil Jacobs, did you?"

  "Briefly."

  "Was the convesation fruitful?"

  "Dragged a little, toward the end."

  "And now he's dead, I guess?"

  "Got jumpy," Rockwell said. "I had to settle him."


  "And how'd his men take that?"

  "They're settled, too."

  "Which brings you back to Tartarus."

  "It had to happen."

  "I suppose." Fowler rose slowly, wincing as if something pained him. "I'm supposed to be the law here."

  "Why I'm talking to you," Rockwell said. "See if you'll help me clean this up."

  "And how'm I s'pose to do that, when I made the mess to start with?"

  "I don't figure you planned any of it, Chief."

  "I didn't stop it, either. Didn't lift a finger, afterward, to punish anyone."

  "There's still time."

  "No, there ain't. I'm done, and we both know it."

  "Want to lock yourself inside that cell?"

  "And hang a month from now, in Salt Lake City? Hell, no. Let's just get 'er done."

  Rockwell shifted the Sharps to his left hand, freeing his right. "Your call."

  Fowler was breathing like a man stoking a bellows, working up his nerve, cheeks going blotchy from the effort. When his slack hand rose to clutch at the revolver on his hip, Rockwell was ready with his Colt, blasting a vent in Fowler's chest from ten feet out. The bullet's impact pitched his target back against the wall where WANTED circulars were tacked. Some of the posters came down with him as he slithered to the floor, leaving some others smeared with gore.

  Rockwell stood over Fowler as he breathed his last, then helped himself to the chief's revolver. It was an old Colt Paterson, out of production for ten years or more, but still serviceable. He checked it over, found its five-shot cylinder fully loaded with .36-caliber rounds, and tucked the pistol underneath his belt, around in back.

  Facing a force of unknown size, you couldn't have too many guns.

  Leaving the chief for someone else to cart away, Rockwell went out and left the door open behind him, seeking other enemies.

  Chapter 11

  "You hear a shot?" Brett Muphy asked his brother Clem.

  "I mighta."

  "Sound like it came from the chief's office?"

  "Dunno."

  "What do you know?"

  Clem grinned at him, raising his glass. "This ain't the best whiskey I ever drunk."

  "Idjit!"

  "Hey, now!"

  "Shut up. One of us needs to go and see if somethin' happened with the chief."

  "I'll wait right here," Clem said, his free hand resting on the Colt Walker he'd slipped inside the waistband of his trousers.

  "Hell you will. We'll flip for it," Brett told him, fishing in his pocket for a coin.

  "Uh-oh."

  Brett glanced up at his brother, saw him staring at the barroom's bat-wing doors, and turned in that direction, just as Porter Rockwell stepped into the Lucky Strike. The long-haired, bearded marshal held his big Sharps rifle in his left hand, so the right was free to go for either of his Navy Colts.

  I guess we know what happened to the chief, Brett thought, his stomach twisting up into a knot.

  Brett was behind the bar, his brother out in front of it, a little act they'd come up with together after Beardsley ordered them to guard the Lucky Strike. There was a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun on a shelf in front of him, about waist-high, already cocked, but he was suddenly afraid to reach for it.

  "I'm looking for the mayor," said Rockwell, moving slowly toward them. There were only half a dozen drinkers in the place, and most of them were leaving now, as fast as they could travel without prodding Rockwell into shooting one of them. Meanwhile, the lawman's eyes were locked on Brett and Clem.

  They weren't alone, of course. Beardsley had Mickey Shaughnessy hiding in back, waiting to help them out, and Brett wished he would hurry up about it. Started wondering if maybe he'd skedaddled out the backdoor when the boss left, on his way to visit Isaac Walton. Bunch of yellow bellies he'd been stuck with—and his brother, who was twitching now, to beat the band.

  "He ain't here," Brett told Rockwell. "Maybe try another time."

  "You don't mind if I have a look in back," the marshal said, not asking. "Just to satisfy myself."

  "Can't letcha do that," Clem advised him, with the whiskey talking. Brett wished he could slap his brother, but he started reaching for the scattergun, instead.

  "You of a mind to stop me, then?" asked Rockwell, closer now and watching both of them.

  "I am," Clem said, and made his last mistake, trying to pull his Colt.

  Rockwell was faster. Lord, the speed on him! He shot Clem once, then swung his piece toward Brett, but didn't waste a shot as Brett dropped down behind the bar. About that time, Mickey arrived, banging away at Rockwell, crying out as the marshal returned fire and drilled him. Brett was cringing, still trying to reach the shotgun, when a stray shot hit one of the lamps behind the bar and it exploded, raining fire.

  He scrabbled down the shotgun from its shelf and used it as a crutch to raise himself, his boots on fire, flames licking at his trouser cuffs and biting at his ankles. Sobbing from the pain and for his brother, Murphy swung the stubby gun around toward Rockwell, but the marshal had him spotted, squeezing off a shot that drove a spike of agony between his ribs. Falling, Brett squeezed the shotgun's double triggers, shattering a dozen whiskey bottles shelved behind the bar, their alcoholic contents spewing out to feed the fire surrounding him.

  He wasn't sure if Rockwell, headed for the office, even heard him scream.

  * * *

  Rockwell didn't bother knocking on the office door. He kicked it in and followed through behind his Colt, three chambers empty now. There was nobody at the mayor's desk to greet him, no one hiding in the closet when he checked it, making sure.

  So, if the Murphy boy had spoken truthfully, where should he look for Beardsley next? Someplace where he felt safe, with men and guns around him, if he hadn't already cleared out of Tartarus.

  Not yet, he thought. The boss would want to stick around and deal with Rockwell if he could. Beardsley owned too much property to simply pull up stakes and run out at a moment's notice. There'd be money to collect from his establishments, and likely from the bank. Supplies to gather if he had a trip in mind.

  Rockwell knew Beardsley owned two more saloons, the Nugget and the Mother Lode. He could be hiding out at either one of them, or at his residence, wherever that was. Maybe with his partner, Isaac Walton, at the office where he did his bit as justice of the peace. In fact, he might wind up searching the town from end to end.

  Better get started, then.

  Retreating to the barroom, Rockwell moved through smoke that made his eyes tear up, passing the men he'd shot. He figured that Brett Murphy must be down behind the bar, burned up by now, with bright flames spreading up the whiskey wall and leaping to the rafters. It would take a miracle to save the Lucky Strike, and Rockwell guessed that miracles were something rarely seen in Tartarus.

  Smoke followed him outside, where he turned back past Fowler's silent office toward the Mother Lode, a half block farther north. He'd passed it by the first time, hoping to catch Beardsley in the office where it seemed he spent most of his time, but now he had to backtrack, searching out his quarry.

  By the time he reached the Mother Lode saloon, a cry of "Fire!" had echoed through the town. People were spilling out of shops and offices along Main Street, some of them rallying to form a hasty fire brigade. Buckets appeared from somewhere and were dipped into horse troughs, carried by some brave souls through the smoky doorway of the Lucky Strike. The bucket-bearers came out coughing, telling others on the street to clear the buildings either side of Beardsley's palace.

  One of them ducked into Fowler's office and was back a second later, shouting out to no one in particular, "The chief's been shot! He's dead!"

  Rockwell ignored the hubbub, waited for a dozen men or so to clear the Mother Lode, then pushed in through its swinging doors. The bartender was on his own, glaring at Rockwell from behind the stick.

  "I'm looking for your boss," said Rockwell.

  "Haven't seen him."

  "Ever?"
/>   "Lately."

  "Does he keep an office here?"

  "It's private."

  "Shouldn't you be out fighting the fire?"

  "Ain't my job."

  "I'm bound to check that office. Point me to it."

  "Point ya straight to Hell," the barkeep said, hunching his shoulders as he reached beneath the bar.

  It was an easy shot from ten feet, through his left eye, pieces of the bullet or his skull cracking a mirror mounted on the wall behind the ranks of bottles. Two rounds still remaining in the Navy Colt as Rockwell walked around the far end of the bar and through a beaded curtain, to another door marked PRIVATE.

  No one home.

  Before he left, he swapped the Colt's near-empty cylinder for one with all six chambers loaded. Kept the pistol in his right hand as he stepped onto the sidewalk, glancing back in the direction of the Lucky Strike, where smoke was pouring from the upstairs windows now. He saw more of it seeping out through shingles on the roof of Fowler's former office, as the fire began to spread.

  One more saloon to check, before he started going door to door, and Rockwell wondered how much of the town would still be standing when he started on his rounds.

  * * *

  "We can't just sit here," Isaac Walton said, his whiny tone grating on Beardsley's nerves.

  "You want to go out in the street and face him, then?" asked Beardsley.

  "You're supposed to have that covered," said the justice of the peace.

  "It is covered. Just give my people time."

  "For what? To let him burn the town around us?"

  "Hold your water, will you?" Beardsley sneered. "I'd guess he took the Murphys by surprise, is all."

  "The world's been taking those two by surprise since they were born."

  "It's impolite to speak ill of the dead," said Beardsley.

  "Impolite?" Walton produced a huffing noise. "I want to know how we're supposed to get clear of this mess."

  "Once Rockwell's dealt with, we pack up and go."

  "Start over, somewhere else?"

  "Unless you'd rather wait around and hang."

  "Goddamn it, Paul!"

  "We always knew this day would come."