Bloody Sunday (A John Stone Western--Book 11)

by Len Levinson

  “In a pig’s ass. I fired the first shot.”

  Clancy hung back, because it appeared to him that Spruance caught all the bullets. Suddenly Spruance’s bloody corpse moved. Stone pushed his lifeless friend away, yanked both Colts, and leapt to his feet. Gunfire tore the night apart, and the gunfighters, caught unawares, fled in all directions. Stone dived behind the nearest water trough.

  A bullet smacked into a plank, and water spurted onto Stone’s face. He rose and fired more shots at figures running toward the alley, while three men lay stretched out in the street. Another bullet crashed into the water trough. Stone rolled to his side and thumbed more cartridges into his Colts. Lead punched through the trough, showering him with more cold water. Stone wished he had the Gatling gun, or a few Ketcham grenades.

  Then he heard the voice of Sheriff Barnes. “What’s goin’ on here!”

  “Stay out of it!” replied Clancy, lying in the alley straight ahead. ‘This ain’t yer fight!”

  The sheriff looked at the bodies lying on the ground. “I don’t like to repeat myself!”

  Stone hollered, “Get out of there!”

  “You kill these men here?”

  “You’re in the crossfire!”

  “Lay down your arms and come out where I can see you. I promise a fair trial.”

  Clancy replied, “Sheriff, you don’t git out of the way, it’ll be yer ass.”

  “It’s against the law to threaten a peace officer. Afraid I’ll have to place you under arrest.”

  “I ain’t a-gonna tell you again.”

  Sheriff Barnes walked toward Clancy, holding his hand out to accept the gun. “Don’t make it worse for yerself than it already is.”

  “I’m a-warnin’ you!”

  “You’re under arrest. Give me that gun.”

  A rifle fired, and Sheriff Barnes staggered in the middle of the street, an expression of surprise on his face. His knees knocked together, he bent at a weird angle. Stone saw a head appear in a dark doorway, and yanked the triggers of both Colts. The night roared, gunsmoke blew into the street, and the head dropped.

  Clancy counted his men, and only had three left. “Let’s get out of here!”

  Stone fired wild shots at retreating footsteps, then the night fell silent. Slowly, cautiously, he arose. Men and women emerged, gathering around the carnage on Main Street. Stone dropped to his knees beside Spruance and rolled him onto his back.

  Spruance was loose as a goose. His jaw dropped opened and blood dribbled out the corner of his mouth, his chest riddled with holes. If the penny had landed the other way, it would’ve been me. Stone felt heartsick for the cherubic young aide-de-camp who became a gunfighter, and remorse transformed into rage that grew hotter with every passing moment. He still couldn’t believe Spruance was dead.

  “Somebody shot the sheriff!” a man hollered.

  Mayor and Mrs. Blodgett waddled onto the scene, wearing coats over their nightclothes, each carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Stone placed his thumbs gently on Spruance’s eyelids and closed them. Somebody’s going to pay for this, I swear it.

  Stone re-entered the deserted saloon, grabbed a bottle, carried it to a table in a corner, blew out the candle, and pulled the cork. The searing bolt of homemade whiskey provided a glimpse of stark horrible reality. Death came without warning. We were on our way to the Black Hills. What the hell happened?

  Stone felt sick in the pit of his stomach. The young gentleman-turned-gunfighter never knew what hit him. Stone couldn’t assimilate it. He’ll come inside, and we’ll have another drink. A human being can’t go that fast.

  The door to the saloon opened, and he prayed Spruance would appear. Instead, Mayor Blodgett, followed by several distinguished citizens, headed for him solemnly. Women and children followed, glancing meekly at hell’s parlor.

  “Captain Stone,” the mayor began, “the city council and I’ve just taken a vote. We’d like you to become sheriff.” The mayor held the tin badge in his hand. “One hundred dollars a month, plus any fines you collect.”

  “Forget it,” Stone replied.

  “That’s four times what a cowboy earns. The town’ll even provide a house for you and your wife.”

  “No deal.”

  Mayor Blodgett waved the others away, and they receded to the far side of the saloon. Blodgett sat opposite Stone and leaned forward, eyes gleaming with friendly persuasion. “If you were sheriff, you could arrest Mulgrave for shooting your friend. Mulgrave might try to escape, since he’s a sneaky son of a bitch, and you could kill him. Get my drift?”

  “How’d you like to volunteer for a posse?”

  “I’m a little old for a posse. But maybe some of the other townspeople might be available. Why don’t you ask them?”

  They huddled together, terrified, and looked to Stone as their savior. “I’m going to arrest Mulgrave and his gunfighters,” Stone told them. “Anybody interested in coming with me? I’m sure Reynolds and his bunch’d throw in with us.”

  They became statues in a wax museum, except for an occasional blink, or the bounce of a man’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed his pride. Stone picked up the sheriff’s star and noticed a fleck of Barnes’s blood on one of the points. He pinned the badge to the front of his buckskin jacket. “I’ll need an advance on my salary.”

  Mayor Blodgett reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Maybe you’d better come back to my office, so I can duly swear you in.”

  “Don’t have time.”

  Stone headed for the Army post, the face of Lieutenant Spruance tumbling before his eyes, alternating with gunfighter Spruance. A figure emerged from the shadows, wearing a derby. “I was wondering,” said Shuttleworth, “if I could have a comment for the Morning Examiner.”

  “Get away from me.”

  “It’s called freedom of the press, Sheriff. What’d you think when you pulled the trigger?”

  Stone flipped a gun, and it fired. A bullet creased the top of Shuttleworth’s derby. The prince of prose dropped to his stomach, certain he’d been killed.

  Stone holstered his gun and came to the gate of the Army post. Two sentries blocked his path. “Who goes there?” one of them asked.

  “Tell Lieutenant Daltry I want to speak with him immediately.”

  “You’ll have to come back in the morning.”

  Stone pushed him out of the way. The other soldier turned the front of his rifle toward Stone, but Stone backhanded it to the side and grabbed him by the throat. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you.”

  The soldier saw the tin badge on Stone’s jacket. Stone let him go and headed for the orderly room. The guards looked at each other and tried to figure out what to do. One ran ahead to the orderly room, to alert the sergeant of the guard. Wind rattled the rope on the bare flagpole, all lights out on the post. Stone climbed the steps of the orderly room and opened the door.

  The sergeant of the guard was Sergeant Nichols from the Blue Bottle Saloon. Half asleep, rubbing his eyes, he sat groggily behind the desk.

  “I want to talk with Lieutenant Daltry.”

  “Where’d you get the badge?”

  “I’m the new sheriff, and next time you’re in town, I’ll throw you in jail, you get smart with me.” Stone walked round the desk and opened a door at the rear of the orderly room. It led to a narrow corridor.

  “You can’t go back there!”

  Stone heard a muffled sleepy voice from behind one of the doors and kicked it open. Lieutenant Daltry sat up in bed, reaching for a rifle. Stone drew a Colt and shot the rifle out of his hands. The rifle fell to the floor and detonated, hot lead burrowed into a desk jammed against the wall.

  Lieutenant Daltry sputtered with confusion. “What’s going on here!”

  “The new sheriff ...” Sergeant Nichols tried to explain.

  Stone slammed the door in the sergeant’s face, then struck a match and lit the lamp, producing the odor of sulfur mixed with coal oil. Lieutenant Daltry felt ridiculous in his
long red underwear. Stone pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. “Mulgrave’s men killed Barnes and Spruance. I’m the new sheriff. It’s time you declared martial law, wouldn’t you say?”

  “The Army’s not your police force. And we definitely can’t take sides in a range war.”

  “I’ll take care of the range war. All I’m asking is that you guarantee the safety of the town. Six men were killed on Main Street tonight. If that’s not enough to get you off your ass, how about this?” Stone pulled a gun and pointed it at Lieutenant Daltry’s head. “Notify the governor that Woodlawn’s under martial law. Station your troopers in town on a twenty-four-hour basis. Otherwise I’ll come back here and blow your brains out. And if you think I’m joking …”

  Stone fired a shot at the tin pitcher next to the washbasin. It clanged into the air and splashed water all over the room. A few drops fell on Stone’s hat and jacket as he made his way to the door. Sergeant Nichols pressed his back against the wall, to let the sheriff pass.

  Chapter Ten

  Stone crossed the deserted street and headed for the hotel. A man wearing a suit and dented derby sprawled on a bench in front of the barbershop. “How’s it going, Sheriff?”

  Stone didn’t slow for a chat. Shuttleworth followed at a safe distance, raising his arms in supplication. “You don’t realize it, but you need me. You killed a bunch of men tonight, then threatened the commanding officer of Fort Lloyd. Men’ve been hung for less, but with me on your side, the public’ll be on your side.”

  Stone turned to him slowly. “You’re under arrest for attempting to bribe an officer of the law.”

  “Now just a moment. You exceed your authority. You .. .”

  His voice trailed off, and his feet kicked in the air as Stone lifted him by the scruff of his collar. The new sheriff carried the intrepid journalist to the sheriff’s office, but nobody had thought of giving Stone the keys, so he shot out the lock and kicked open the door.

  “You can’t do this to me!” the journalist screamed. “It’s a violation of my rights!”

  Stone found a ring of keys hanging from a peg on the wall. He tried them in the jail door, and the mechanism turned.

  Shuttleworth felt himself flying through the air and crashed into the cot at the far end of the cell. Stone slammed the door, hung the keys on the wall, and departed. The journalist stood speechless, clutching handfuls of iron bars. “We can make millions, you thick-headed son of a bitch!” His voice echoed in the dusty corners of the jail, and the slop bucket smelled incredibly horrible. The journalist covered his face with his hands, and sobbed in frustration. The greatest story of my life, but that bastard won’t give me the time of day.

  ~*~

  Stone stayed close to protective walls as he made his way down Main Street. His eyes roved from alleys to darkened doorways, and then scanned rooftops. He expected another bushwhack any moment, and almost hoped it’d come, so he could get it over with.

  It reminded him of the war. A deep pent-up rage felt ready to burst, like a volcano. Mulgrave killed a good man, and he’s not getting away with it. He remembered a lesson from Sunday school: God loved the repentant sinner most. All Spruance ever needed was a friend to give him an alternative. His anger stoked hotter as he entered the lobby of the hotel. The clerk smiled behind his counter, and Stone touched his finger to the brim of his hat. He came to his door, rapped his knuckles. “It’s me.”

  Leticia arose behind the chair, rifle in hand. “There’s been shooting,” she said, “and I thought it was injuns. What’s that on your jacket?”

  “Time for you to move out of this hotel. Pack your bag.”

  She blinked. “Now?”

  “You got it.” Stone stood beside the window and looked into the backyard. A light shone in the stable, but everything else was pale blue in the moonlight.

  ‘Thought I told you to pack.”

  “Mind telling me where I’m going?”

  “To live with the mayor.”

  “Where’ll you live?”

  “Be back in a few days.”

  “I don’t want to live with the mayor.”

  “I’ve met some of the people in this range war, and I don’t want you alone.”

  “What about what I want?”

  “You’re not old enough to know what to want.”

  A lock of hair fell over her eye, and she blew it away angrily. “How’d I ever get mixed up with you?”

  “You begged to come with me, as I recall.”

  “I hate you!” She balled her fists and tried to punch him, but he easily caught her wrists in midair.

  “Settle down.”

  “You’re more considerate to your horse and dog than to me! I’m just a way to pass the time when you don’t have anything better to do!”

  “Spruance was shot tonight. So was Barnes. I’m the new sheriff, and I’ve got work to do. When it’s over, we’ll talk about our future. But not now.”

  There was silence in the room for a few moments, then she pulled out her saddlebags. “I’m sorry to hear about Spruance.”

  He peered into the back alley. “The Mulgrave bunch did it. Soon as you’re safe, I’m going after them.”

  He opened the top drawer of the dresser, took out his bottle, one-quarter full. She packed her meager belongings and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Why doesn't he like me? She recalled Lieutenant Daltry, but somehow he seemed insignificant compared to the man on the other side of the room. Stone frightened her. Even Shoshoni warriors deferred to him.

  She heard his footstep. He enclosed her in his arms and touched his lips to her forehead. “Please forgive me,” he whispered.

  She felt his body against her thin nightdress. His hand slipped beneath the fabric. She raised her face, and he was dusty from the trail, smelling of tobacco and whiskey. She went limp in his arms, and he swept her to the bed.

  They landed with a bounce. He rolled on top of her, covering her mouth with kisses. She felt as if her soul were being sucked away. Dazzled, swooning, she dug her fingernails into his hair. He groped for the hem of her gown. The room filled with sighs and moans as the bed groaned beneath their gyrations.

  Mulgrave and his wife stood in their parlor, watching men on horseback ride across the backyard.

  “There’s less of ’em than went out,” Eunice observed.

  “Maybe the ramrod left a few in town.”

  The gunfighters headed their horses into the barn, and then Clancy emerged, walking toward the main house. A maid opened the door, and he headed for the parlor. Logs crackled in the fireplace, and he held his cold hands to the flames.

  “Where’re the other men?” Mulgrave asked.

  “John Stone shot ’em, but we got Spruance and Barnes.”

  Mulgrave dropped into a chair, astonished by the news. “Now what?” he asked no one in particular.

  Eunice’s arms crossed in the doorway, a cold gleam in her eye. “With the sheriff out of the way, there’s only one thing to do. Attack Reynolds at once, and wipe out his operation.”

  “Not tonight,” Clancy said. “The men who went to town with me can barely stand, and I’m plumb tuckered out too. John Stone is one rough hombre, let me tell you. We almost got him, but that damned Spruance stepped in the way.”

  “How soon can we move against them?” Eunice asked impatiently.

  “Let the men sleep a few hours, then we’ll be ready to ride.”

  ~*~

  A horse and dog waited impatiently in front of the hotel, while a strange gnarled tumbleweed bounced and tossed down the main street of town, carried by the cold wind.

  Warpaint shivered beneath his blanket and saddle, and Muggs made low whimpering sounds, his tail wagging nervously. Then he emitted an anxious bark. The moon sailed across the sky, the only other light came from the Blue Bottle Saloon.

  A drunk stumbled over the sidewalk, singing an out-of-tune song:

  “Headin’ on down to Albuquerque saddlebags filled with beans and jerky.�
��

  Muggs crouched in the shadows by the door. The drunkard, who wore a red vest and a gold chain, opened it. Muggs bolted inside and dived into the shadows behind a chair. The clerk looked up behind his desk. “Mornin’ Mr. Hines.”

  Mr. Hines climbed the stairs laboriously. Muggs waited until the lobby fell quiet again. Then he crept through the shadows toward the stairs and jumped up quickly. The room clerk turned from his newspaper, and Muggs was out of sight.

  On the second floor, Muggs sniffed various odors. A trace of John Stone came to him, and he drew close to a door. The voice of his friend could be heard from the other side. The door opened, and Stone saw his faithful dog. “I’ll be damned.” Stone dropped to one knee and scratched behind Muggs’s ears. “This is a smart dog. I don’t see him for days, but he always knows where to find me.”

  Stone carried Leticia’s saddlebags to the stairs, and Leticia patted Muggs’s side. ‘Take care of him,” she murmured to the animal. “He needs all the help he can get.”

  They crossed the lobby, Muggs bringing up the rear, holding his head proudly. The desk clerk opened his mouth to protest the dog on the premises, but decided not to bother the fastest gun alive. Stone threw her saddlebags over Warpaint’s back, then lifted Leticia like a feather and gently dropped her into the saddle.

  Stone led Warpaint down the main street of town, with Muggs patrolling ahead, aiming his sharp vision into alleys, windows, and other likely spots for a bushwhack. Leticia rocked sleepily in the saddle. The more I know him, the more I love him. John Stone is the man for me.

  ~*~

  After leaving the mayor’s home, Stone stopped at his office for extra ammunition. Shuttle worth, seated on his cot in the cell, looked up from his notepad. Sheets of paper piled around him, he’d been writing furiously for hours.

  “You can throw me in jail,” the reporter said defiantly. “You can haul me before a magistrate. But nothing bad happens to a reporter. It’s all material. What d’you think of my headline?

  THROWN IN JAIL BY THE FASTEST GUN ALIVE