by Len Levinson
“At first I felt sorry for myself,” Shuttleworth continued. “Then I realized I was sitting on the best story of my career. The only way you can stop me is kill me. I’ll make you famous in spite of yourself, only now you won’t get a share of the profits.”
Stone took down the ring of keys from the wall. He unlocked the jail cell and scooped the scrawled sheets of paper from the floor.
“Hey, what d’you think you’re doing!” demanded the reporter, horrified.
Stone pulled the notepad out of his hands, pushed him away, and retreated from the jail cell, slamming the door with his heel. He opened the door of the potbellied stove and threw the best story of Shuttleworth’s career inside.
“No! Please! Wait a minute!”
Stone tossed a lighted match into the potbellied stove, and the scrawled pages went poof! The sheriff tossed in a few sticks of wood, closed the door, and took the rifle down from the wall. He found cartridges in the desk and filled his pockets. Then he threw a few logs on the fire and left the office, slamming the door behind him.
Shuttleworth sat gasping with rage in the darkness as his precious story went up in smoke. He considered it a catastrophe of major proportions. All his brilliant ideas and clever observations gone forever.
But nothing bad ever happens to a reporter. It’s all material. He thought of a new headline:
THE SUPPRESSED STORY OF THE FASTEST GUN ALIVE
His reportorial brain shifted into high gear. The brutal gun-fighter tore the story out of my hands, because he didn’t want the truth known. It’s just another chapter. The jail warmed, and firelight danced on the ceiling. Shuttleworth felt a strange sense of well-being. Gets better as it goes along. He closed his eyes and dreamed of becoming a famous reporter, friend of leading statesmen and professional boxers, admired by actresses with easy morals. The big son of a bitch can’t keep me in jail forever.
~*~
The Mulgrave ranch slept in a valley of darkness, stars twinkled in the sky, and the faint outline of a mountain range stretched across the wide horizon. John Stone lay on his stomach and focused the spyglass lenses on the edges of buildings, barn door, corral. No barricades as at the Reynolds ranch, but Mulgrave surely posted guards. Where were they? He scanned the jumble of buildings. Nothing moved, the guards out of sight, maybe asleep.
He withdrew to the bottom of the hill, threw the saddlebags over his shoulder, then knelt beside Muggs. “Come with me, and be quiet.” In a crouch, Stone headed for the ranch buildings, and Muggs followed through the grass. The ranch buildings were still, all lights out, not a coyote howled. Stone knelt beside the corral and patted Muggs’s head. “Run through the middle of the yard and don’t stop for anything. Then circle around and come back here.”
Muggs’s eyes danced with delight, because he loved mischief. He broke into a run and sped around the corral, heading for the main yard.
“What the hell’s that!” shouted a voice.
“I cain’t see nothin’,” someone else replied.
Muggs was gone. One man emerged from the front door of the barn, another popped from the shadows at the rear of the house. They met in the middle of the yard.
“Must be a coyote who ate too much loco weed,” one said.
The other guffawed nervously, then both guards returned to their posts. Tiny red dots of lit cigarettes appeared. Stone crawled forward, heading toward the rear of the house, cradling his rifle in his hands. It reminded him of creeping up on Yankee sentries during the war. He came to the rear of the house, lay his rifle on the grass, yanked his Apache knife out of his boot. Lowering his head, he inched toward the guard, who leaned against the wall of the house, a rifle cradled in his lap.
The guard’s face was deeply lined and had the nose of an injun. Wind rustled the grass and branches of the trees, then footsteps came to the guard’s ears. He opened his mouth to shout, but a big hand muffled his voice, and something sharp pierced his jugular vein.
His lifeblood geysered out, and he went limp in Stone’s arms. A voice came from the barn. “All right over there, Clem?”
“Just fine,” Stone uttered.
The backyard became silent. Stone sank into the shadows and wiped his fingers on his pants. Then he crawled around the corner and moved toward the rear of the barn. He paused, listened for dangerous sounds, then advanced again, his back to the wall, rifle in his hands. Finally he came to the front of the barn. He set his boots down silently as he inched closer to the opening. Then he tossed a rock.
“That you, Clem?” The guard pushed himself off the chair and moved cautiously toward the front door. “Clem?” He poked his head out the door and peered in the direction of the main house, “Where the hell are you?”
It was the last word he ever spoke as a knife slit his throat. Stone dragged him into the barn, withdrew a tin of coal oil from his saddlebags, poured some on the hay, then lit a match. An orange sheet of flame climbed the wall, and Stone ran out of the barn. He soaked rags with coal oil, stuffed them into cracks between logs of the bunkhouse, and set them ablaze.
Then he made his way across the yard to the living-room window, poured the remaining coal oil over the walls, and set it afire. Finally he headed for the corral, where he opened the swinging doors wide. Horses trotted outside, while an inferno rolled across the walls of the main house and bunkhouse, and smoke trailed out the door of the barn.
~*~
Clarence Mulgrave opened his eyes. He wore a blue flannel sleeping cap, a fuzzy red ball hanging down to his ear. The faint smell of smoke drifted to his nostrils. He assumed it came from a downdraft in the chimney, or a bad log in the fireplace.
“Awake?” his wife asked.
“Can’t sleep,” he admitted. “I think we should round up Reynolds’s cattle, rebrand them, and let him fight to get them back.” Light danced on the ceiling. “Somebody’s got a lantern out there. I’ll take a look.”
He rolled out of bed and thrust his feet into slippers, then shuffled toward the window. An expression of utter panic suddenly came over his face, and he sucked wind. Flames poured out of the barn and enveloped the bunkhouse. “Fire!” somebody shouted.
Mulgrave opened the window and discovered the main house was ablaze too! His knees nearly buckled with terror. “Help!”
Cowboys poured out of the bunkhouse inferno and ran for shelter. The shot of a rifle came from afar, and a bullet sliced through Clancy’s lung. The ramrod’s orders died in his throat, and he lost his footing, clutching the hole in his chest. Blood burbled out of his mouth as he spun around dizzily, trying to comprehend what was happening to him. He’d been asleep, suddenly was awake, and now pitched onto his face, the death of a gunfighter.
The rifle fired again. A gunfighter named Krieger, wanted for rape, robbery, and murder in numerous jurisdictions, was knocked backward, hat falling off his head. The other gun-fighters frantically dived for shelter, trying to figure out where the shots were coming from.
~*~
Stone jacked the lever of his rifle and aimed at another Mulgrave gunfighter. Flames illuminated the area, and he could see his foes clearly, but they couldn’t see him. They ran about in panic, and Stone fired, bringing the gunfighter down. The rest dived behind barrels and piles of trash. A few cowered beside the privy. Another gang tipped over a wagon and lay behind it.
The back door of the house opened, and Mulgrave appeared, carrying a rifle and wearing his sleeping cap. Stone drew a bead on him, but then Eunice moved into his sights, and the ex-cavalry officer couldn’t shoot a woman. He returned his aim to the gunfighters. One crept from behind the wagon, to help Mulgrave and his wife. Stone squeezed his trigger the extra sixteenth of an inch, and the rifle kicked into his shoulder. The gunfighter extended his hand and fell onto his face, blood leaking from his kidney.
Mulgrave dragged Eunice behind the wagon as a bullet cracked into the undercarriage. “It’s Reynolds!” he hollered. ‘The son of a bitch’s attacking!”
Somebody crouched next
to him. “There’s only one rifle out there.”
Mulgrave ground his teeth in frustration. They couldn’t put out the fire, because the sharpshooter would cut them down. His heart beat faster and he felt pain in his chest as he watched his beloved ranch burn to the ground. Orange and red tongues covered the main house, and the breeze carried blasts of heat across the yard. A horrible crash came to his ears as the roof of the barn caved in, sending a shower of orange sparks into the air. Putrid smoke drifted across the valley, making Mulgrave cough. Beside him, Eunice balled and unbaled her fists with anger as the hopes and dreams of a lifetime went up in smoke.
Chapter Eleven
Leticia sat at breakfast with Mayor and Mrs. Blodgett in the dining room of their spacious home. The maid carried a silver tureen of porridge as four troopers rode down the center of the street. Leticia watched through the windows as they disappeared from view.
“Your husband’s a miracle worker,” the mayor declared. “This town’s never been so safe in its history.”
“If he’s done so much, it seems the least you can do is give him a decent home,” Leticia said, “instead of that filthy broken-down hotel room. Who’d want to visit a town with a hotel like that? If I had capital to invest, I’d buy the place and turn it into a first-class operation. By the way, who owns it?”
Mayor Blodgett cleared his throat. “Er ... ahh ... I do.”
“Every major town in the West will be available to rail travel sooner or later. Woodlawn could be a great metropolis. All it takes is imagination.”
“And money,” the mayor replied. “I’m spread thin as butter on this muffin. If you had capital, I’d sell it to you. But then who’d be the schoolmarm?”
“By the way,” Mrs. Blodgett said, “a number of women have mentioned it sets a bad example for the children to have a married schoolmarm who doesn’t wear a ring. They might wonder if she’s really married.”
“My husband and I must spend our meager money on more important things,” Leticia replied. “We’ll need furniture for the quarters you’re going to find us. You do have someplace in mind, don’t you?”
Mayor Blodgett patted Leticia’s hand in a fatherly manner. “Before the week is out, you’ll be ensconced in your own home, dear. And don’t worry about furniture. We’ll find whatever you need. As for rings and clothing, go to the general store and charge them to my account. Pay me back when you get the chance. We want you to be happy here.”
A maid led Lieutenant Daltry into the dining room, his uniform perfectly pressed, gold braid gleaming. He came to a stop beside the mayor’s chair. ‘Thought I should tell you officially that I’ve placed the town under martial law, sir.” He turned toward Leticia. “So good to see you again, Mrs. Stone. I had the pleasure of meeting your delightful husband last night. He threatened to kill me.”
Leticia had an answer for everything, but not this time. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Lieutenant Daltry turned to the mayor. “Has anybody seen our new sheriff? I’d like to tell him about martial law. It means I’m in charge around here, and civilian authorities take orders from me. And if he ever again threatens me, he’ll spend the rest of his life in the stockade.”
~*~
Curls of smoke trailed into the morning breeze. Mulgrave raised his head from behind a clump of grass, placed his hat on a stick, and raised it in the air. No shot, the valley silent, buzzards circled in the sky.
Mulroney rose to his feet and peered ahead from a gun-fighter’s crouch. “Looks like the son of a bitch’s gone.”
The men examined the hills, ready to hit the dirt at the first sound of trouble. Eunice was the last one up, and squared her bony shoulders. “We can’t let them get away with this!”
Her husband scanned the plains, shielding his eyes from the sun with the palm of his hand. Horses grazed in the distance. “I’ll have to select a new ramrod,” he muttered to his wife.
“Promote Carsons, the segundo,” she said.
She made most of the decisions, always had. Mulgrave merely passed her orders along. “You’re the new ramrod,” he said to Boyd Carsons. “Round up the horses.”
Carsons was a heavy drinker with liver problems, angry at the world since his father was shot as a horse thief twenty years ago. He spat into the grass and said derisively, “I’ve had enough of this damn-fool range war. Pay me my money down. Time to move on.”
“Me too,” said Mulroney.
“I’ve got it up to here,” added Olmstead, passing his finger across his eyeballs.
“Time to fight,” Mulgrave protested. “We’ll capture the Reynolds ranch and move in. It’ll be the new Mulgrave ranch.”
Carsons yanked his gun and aimed at Mulgrave. “I ain’t a-gonna tell you again. Pay me my money down.”
A gun fired. Acrid smoke attacked everyone’s nostrils, and Carsons twitched, shock on his face. His jaw dropped open as his watery eyes fell on the gun in Eunice’s hand. She looked like the black Madonna of death as his knees gave in. He hit the ground like dead weight, while high in the sky, buzzards cackled for joy.
“I was under the impression,” Eunice said coolly, “that you were gunfighters, not little girls. Now that it’s time to fight, you run away and hold your skirts so they won’t get dirty? But you’re not getting paid, because there’s no money left. And if I ever get out of this, I’ll travel to every town in the West, and say what cowards you were. You won’t get work shoveling shit when I’m finished with you.”
She walked toward the horses, and the gunfighters’ faces smarted with shame. “But, senora,” said Delgado, a cutthroat from old Monterrey, “we have work the last month weethout a peso. Surely you can geeve us sungtheeng.”
She pointed to the charred ruins of the Lazy Y. “It’s all yours. But if you were real men, instead of senoritas, you’d go to the Reynolds spread and take your pay. I bet he’s got a nice pile of coins stashed away, and you could live on the ranch until the real money starts rolling in again from the Army.
Then you’d get paid in full, and go to your next jobs. But you’d rather run away with your tails between your legs.”
Backshooters, knife-slingers, bushwhackers, and whoremongers wilted beneath her glare. Dave Stolney, who’d shot a deputy sheriff in Dallas, shrugged. “Hell, I’ll finish out my job.”
Silence for a few moments, then “Me too,” from Olmstead.
The others joined in, and Mulgrave decided not to waste time. “Stolney, you’re the new ramrod. Mulroney, you’ll be segundo. Round up the horses. We’re goin’ to town.”
Stolney took off his hat and scratched his sandy hair. “I thought we was headed for the Reynolds spread.”
“First we got to make it look good in the eyes of the law. And maybe, if we play our cards right, we can get the Army to take care of Reynolds for us.”
~*~
Barbara Reynolds shoveled manure as horses murmured in the stalls. She wore men’s clothes and boots and performed many of the chores, so the cowboys could be free for more pressing tasks.
It was morning, her belly filled with biscuits, coffee, and bacon. The cow they kept for milk gazed at her mournfully through huge eyes. When Barbara first came west, she hated barn odors, but now considered them healthy and natural, part of the cycle of life. She felt calm and at peace in the barn.
“Somebody’s comin’!” shouted one of the cowboys.
Barbara grabbed her rifle and ran to the door. The cowboys looked toward the direction of the Mulgrave ranch, and a sole figure trotted toward them, accompanied by a dog.
“It’s John Stone!”
He moved in smooth coordination with his horse’s lope, his old Confederate cavalry hat cutting the wind. Cowboys opened the gate, and Stone pulled back Warpaint’s reins. The cowboys formed a circle around Stone as he climbed down from the saddle.
He loosened the cinch underneath Warpaint, while talking rapidly. “You’d better get ready, because Mulgrave’s on the way. I burned his ranch down a
nd he’s got no place else to go. Do you have anything to drink?”
Somebody handed him a canteen, while a cowboy led Warpaint toward the barn. Stone wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Keep your eyes peeled for Mulgrave. The sooner we see him, the better. Make sure the Gatling gun is ready, and distribute the grenades. We can wipe him out if we wait till he gets close, and make every shot count.”
~*~
Mulgrave approached Woodlawn at the head of a column of gunfighters, and soldiers guarded the road entering town. “Must be expecting injuns,” he murmured.
Eunice wondered how she ever married such a fool, but he’d seemed strong and stalwart when they met. Soldiers congregated in the middle of the trail, led by Sergeant Nichols, who twirled his red mustache.
“Town’s under martial law,” he said jovially. “Have to ask fer yer guns, if’n you don’t mind.”
“Nobody takes my guns, Sergeant,” Mulgrave replied.
“Then you ain’t a-comin’ inter Woodlawn, Mr. Mulgrave.”
Soldiers aimed their rifles at Mulgrave and his men. A long tense moment passed, then Eunice asked, “Why’s the town under martial law?”
Sergeant Nichols took off his hat before the lady. “Bunch of boys from yer ranch tried to bushwhack John Stone t’other night on Main Street. Lieutenant Daltry don’t want no range war here.”
Mulgrave didn’t like his wife to speak for him in public, and sought to reassert himself. ‘The way I heard it, Stone and that snake Spruance fired on my men. I demand to speak with Lieutenant Daltry at once.”
“That’s up to him, but in the meantime, got to ask for yer weapons.”
Mulgrave leaned on his pommel. “I’d like to know your name, because I intend to mention it when time comes to make my report to the governor.”
Sergeant Nichols recited his name, rank, and serial number as though he’d given them a million times before. “And now I’ll take them guns’n rifles, if’n you want to visit this town.”