Payback at Big Silver

by Ralph Cotton

“He’s a damn fool,” Boyle said.

  “Yep, so let’s make him our fool,” Rudabaugh said. He leaned forward a little. “Once Stone is dead, if anybody gets their neck stretched for killing him, let it be Dirty Donald instead of us.”

  Boyle considered it for a moment, then gave a shrug himself.

  “Whatever you say, Silas,” he replied. “Who knows? We come across any more hundred-year-old women we need killed, Ferry’s the man for the job.”

  Rudabaugh chuckled.

  “Yes, except he can’t hit nothing,” he said.

  Boyle took a sidelong glance out through the wavy window glass.

  “Speak of a fool and he sticks his head up,” he said. He nodded out the window at Ferry, who walked along the edge of the street from the doctor’s office toward the saloon.

  “All right,” said Rudabaugh, “when he gets here let’s make him feel welcome.” He raised a hand toward the busy bar and summoned one of the bartenders over to the table. When the tall bald-headed man arrived, Rudabaugh said, “Phil, bring us three cigars, a clean shot glass and a tall mug of beer.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Rudabaugh,” said the bartender. He turned and hurried away.

  “Hear that, Clayton?” said Rudabaugh. “It’s Mr. Rudabaugh while we’re here on Centrila’s payroll. You know, he made me sort of manager of this place—said look after his interest for the time being.” He gave his half smile again. “I tell you, I could get used to this.”

  “I see you can,” Boyle observed.

  The bartender returned in only seconds with the beer, the shot glass and black cigars in hand. Laying the items on the table, he handed each of them a cigar and produced a long match. He stood expectantly while they sniffed the cigars and stuck them into their mouths.

  Rudabaugh gave Boyle a look as the match flared to life and the bartender lit their cigars in turn.

  “Anything else, gentlemen?” the bartender asked.

  “That’s all, Phil,” Rudabaugh said, letting out a stream of smoke. He looked at Boyle as the bartender walked away. “See what I’m saying? This ain’t no bad job, waiting for ol’ Edsel to show up and take over firsthand.”

  Boyle nodded.

  “You’re right,” he said, “I just need to ease up and enjoy the wait.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Rudabaugh. He nodded toward Donald Ferry as Ferry limped into the saloon, a hand held loosely against the bandaged wound in his side. “Now let’s show this boy how much we like him.”

  “You first, Silas,” Boyle said under his breath as Ferry walked over to their table.

  “Fair enough, watch this,” Rudabaugh said, also under his breath. He swung around in his chair, facing Ferry with as much of a smile as he could manufacture.

  “How’s the side, Donald?” he asked.

  “Sore,” Ferry said, “but it’s not a bad wound.”

  “What happened over there, Ferry?” Rudabaugh said with interest. “Did the doctor clear you? We were starting to get concerned. Figuring we might have to come break you out.” He gestured for Ferry to sit down in an empty chair where an empty shot glass stood as if waiting for him. He quickly reached out with the bottle of rye and filled the glass.

  Ferry looked confused, taken aback by this sudden change in attitude toward him. But he eased down into the chair and wrapped his free hand around the shot glass.

  “Well,” said Boyle, looking Ferry up and down, “are you going to tell us what happened with the doctor, or not?”

  “Hey, take it easy, Clayton,” said Rudabaugh. “Give the man time to wet his whistle.” He held on to the bottle as if ready to pour again as soon as Ferry’s glass needed filling. The two stared at Ferry in rapt anticipation. Ferry raised the glass to his lips and took a short sip.

  “Well,” he said almost hesitantly, “the doctor says my shot grazed the old woman’s shoulder, but he concluded it didn’t kill her. Stone had to let me go, bad as he hated to.” He looked back and forth between the two gunmen as if expecting their scorn. “It was self-defense, like we all knew it was.”

  Boyle sat watching quietly, curious as to how Rudabaugh would handle this. Rudabaugh nodded as if giving the matter serious consideration. Finally he raised a finger for emphasis and gave Ferry a sly grin.

  “That was some damn quick thinking on your part,” he said. “Not to mention, some damn fine shooting.”

  Ferry looked bewildered.

  “Huh?” Boyle said. “Quick thinking . . . fine shooting?” He looked equally puzzled by Rudabaugh’s words. “Did I miss something there?” He stared at Ferry as if demanding an explanation. But Rudabaugh held up a hand as if to stop Ferry from explaining his actions.

  “Allow me, Donald,” Rudabaugh said. He turned to Boyle and continued. “He pulled his shot, Clayton. Aimed high left instead of dead center. It took some cool-handed confidence, the way I see it.”

  Boyle sat staring, picking up on Rudabaugh’s game.

  “Imagine the black cloud we could have hung over Centrila’s new saloons if Donald had splattered that old crow’s heart all over the street, self-defense or not,” Rudabaugh continued.

  Boyle eased back in consideration.

  “All right, Silas, I’ll give you that,” he said. He gave Ferry a nod and studied him as if starting to see him in a little different light. “You figured all that, Donald? That quick?” He snapped his fingers to show how quick. “You figured to fire high, wing her instead of—”

  “Of course he did,” Rudabaugh cut in before Boyle could even finish his question. “It’s a damn good thing too. That old woman’s wild bullets could have hit any one of us.” He smiled admirably and topped off Ferry’s whiskey glass with the bottle of rye. “Drink up, pard. You’ve earned your seat at this table.” He tipped the raised bottle as if in a toast and turned his eyes to Boyle for support.

  Boyle raised his shot glass, indulging Rudabaugh without showing his disdain for Ferry.

  “I’ll go along with that,” he said coolly.

  • • •

  The Ranger and Stone stood out in front of the sheriff’s office to keep their conversation from being overheard by Boomer Phipps and Freddie Dobbs. They saw townsmen flock from all over town to the Silver Palace to drink and talk about the shooting. A tinny piano rattled above street. Farther down the street, Mama Belleza’s cantina sat empty, its doors closed, the little adobe structure looking bleak and shadowy in the fading evening sunlight.

  “That poor ol’ woman didn’t deserve to die like this,” Stone commented with unveiled bitterness. He sucked on a cough drop; his fingertips rapped sharply on the butt of his big Colt.

  “No, she didn’t,” the Ranger said, “but we both know it was self-defense, whether we like it or not.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Stone asked, turning a cold eye to the Ranger.

  “Whose side do you think?” the Ranger said, coming back just as cold.

  Stone eased down and looked off along the street.

  “I’m on the side of the law,” Sam said in an even tone. “I know you are too, else I wouldn’t be standing here with you.”

  Stone nodded and eased down some more.

  “Being lawful don’t always make a thing right,” the sheriff said. “Mama Belleza should have died in her bed with family around, not out in the street. She didn’t deserve this.”

  “I understand,” Sam said. “We both know the law isn’t about what folks deserve. Folks get what the situation bequeaths them. Trim away all the circumstances, she came at a man shooting and he shot back—even took a bullet from her.”

  “So you’re telling me Dirty Donald Ferry had a right to stand his ground, Ranger?” Stone said, turning back to him. “Against a woman going on a hundred years old?”

  “No, I’m not going to tell you he had the right,” Sam said firmly. “But I want to hear you tel
l me that he didn’t.”

  Stone feel silent and looking away again.

  “Somebody has to stand up for Mama Belleza,” Stone said.

  “You’ve been standing up for folks like her since the day you pinned on a badge, Sheriff,” Sam said. “It’s not right what happened to her. But once you trim the circumstances down to the bone, the law says she was in the wrong. Those three are no-account outlaws and killers, but Donald Ferry was within his rights. The law owes him the same diligence it owed Mama Belleza—bad as I hate to say it.”

  “This was all Edsel Centrila’s fault,” Stone said, refusing to give in on the matter. He gestured toward the Silver Palace. “Him and his dang big fancy saloon . . . driving an old woman like Mama out of business. Causing her to do some fool thing like this.” He shook his head. “All just to get back at me for turning him in to the judge.”

  “You really figure he did all this—bought out this big saloon, just to get back at you, Sheriff?” Sam asked quietly.

  Stone fished a fresh cough drop from his shirt pocket and stuck it into his mouth with shaky fingers.

  “I know that’s not the only reason he bought it,” he said. “But I know him to be a spiteful man, and I have no doubt it played into him buying it. Any time I walk through the Palace doors, I’m going to expect the worst.”

  “That’s not a bad idea any time you walk into a saloon wearing a badge,” Sam said. “All this other, maybe you want to give it some more thought.”

  Stone let his hands fall to his sides.

  “All right,” he said with resolve, “I know you think I’m being suspicious and crazy, so I’m going to quit talking about it.” He took a deep breath and changed the subject. “You know I saw all this coming, don’t you?”

  “It appeared that you did, I have to admit,” said the Ranger.

  “Awfully weird incident, huh,” said Stone, “how I saw her lying there dead before it happened?”

  “Either an awfully weird incident or one awfully peculiar coincidence,” Sam said.

  “Coincidence?” said Stone. “You saw it, you heard it. Are you now going to say I didn’t see it coming?”

  “Sheriff, I don’t know what to make of you seeing her lying there dead,” said Sam. “I might be saying ‘coincidence’ because I don’t know what else to call it. All those other things you talked about seeing before, I believe the doctor might be right. The fact is I just don’t know.”

  Stone thought about it and nodded.

  “Obliged that you’re honest enough to admit you don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think the doctor knows either, but being a doctor he can’t admit it like the rest of us can.” He sucked on the cough drop and readjusted it in his mouth. His fingertips went back to tapping his gun butt. “I need some coffee. What about you?”

  The Ranger looked him up and down.

  “Obliged, but I’m good,” he said. “Are you going to be all right here, with Centrila’s men in town?”

  “All right, how?” said Stone. “I’m getting over the whiskey shakes a little more every day. I’m drawn tighter than a fiddle, but I’m holding myself together.” He gave a stiff grin. “I’m not turning into a wolf—”

  “I can stay a day or two longer,” Sam said, cutting him off, seeing how high-strung and shaky he’d become. “My prisoners wouldn’t mind waiting a couple of days before I turn them in.”

  “I’m obliged for your offer, but you take your prisoners on in, Ranger,” Stone said. “I’m all right here.” He gazed away, off across the evening shadows along the distant hill lines. “Nobody made me drink. I got into this shape on my own. I’ll get through it on my own.”

  Sam nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “I needed to make the offer. That done, I’m turning in. I want to head out before daylight.”

  “Obliged,” Stone said, still staring away across the late-evening sky. “You can have the cot in the back room. I’ll be at my desk tonight.”

  “Trouble sleeping?” Sam asked.

  “No,” said Stone, “trouble dreaming, is all. I can get to sleep, but my dreams wake me up.” He gave a slight shrug. “I know it’s just the whiskey trying to hang on. It’ll pass.” He looked away again as if not wanting to talk about it. “Night, Ranger,” he said without looking around.

  “Night, Sheriff,” Sam said, touching the brim of his sombrero.

  Chapter 6

  Before the first ray of dawn mantled the horizon, Sheriff Stone sat slumped in his chair, his head bowed over his desk like a man deep in prayer. A mug of cold coffee sat at his right hand; loose cough drops lay strewn atop a stack of wanted posters. He snored quietly, deeper in sleep than he had been for the past week. The Ranger had slept on a cot in the back room. When he awakened, he dressed and pulled on his boots and walked out the rear door, rifle and saddlebags in hand, careful not to disturb the sheriff’s much-needed rest. He eased the rear door closed behind himself.

  While he walked to the livery barn to ready his dun and the prisoners’ horses for the trail, inside his cell Boomer Phipps stood up from his bunk and looked through the darkness at the sleeping sheriff as he stepped over to the back wall. In the cell next to him, Dobbs also stood up and watched the big outlaw. Sensing something afoot, Dobbs eased his arm out of the sling the doctor had placed around his neck and walked to the door of his cell. The two prisoners nodded at each other in the laddered moonlight lying slantwise through the rear barred windows.

  Quietly Boomer reached up, gripped the window bars in his giant hands and walked three steps straight up the wall until he squatted across the window frame like some ape caged in a public zoo. Dobbs watched, barely daring to breathe, as the big man planted and pushed his feet against the wall with all his massive strength. The iron bars creaked in Boomer’s viselike grip.

  “Good God!” Dobbs whispered, hearing a long muffled groan build and begin to erupt from Boomer’s broad chest. At the same time he heard a cracking of rock and hard mortar where the window bars began giving way to the enormous pressure pulling against them.

  Glancing toward the sleeping sheriff, Dobbs noted that the snoring had stopped suddenly. He started to whisper something to Boomer, caution him against the deep rumbling sound he was making. But before he could say a thing, he saw the barred window break free of its frame and launch the big outlaw across the cell as if he’d been fired from a circus cannon.

  Dobbs ducked down as Boomer hit the front of his cell so hard the entire building shuddered with the impact. Boomer fell to the floor with the bent window bars atop him. At his desk, the terrible racket caused Sheriff Stone to jerk his bowed head up and leap to his feet. He grabbed his holstered Colt instinctively. As he hurried to the front of the two cells to see what had happened, he saw Boomer sling the window bars aside and rise to his feet.

  “Hold it right there, big man,” Stone shouted. “I’ll shoot.” He stuck his Colt out arm’s length toward the huge outlaw.

  “No, you won’t, law dog,” Boomer shouted in reply. “Nobody’s going to shoot me.” He started to turn toward the torn-open window. Stone cocked the outstretched Colt and hurried closer, aiming carefully between the bars. But before he pulled the trigger, Dobbs sprang upright, reached through and grabbed the sheriff by his forearm and yanked him forward. Stone’s forehead struck the iron bars with the muffled sound of a church bell. He crumbled down onto his knees. His gun flew from his hand and skidded away across the floor.

  “Boomer, wait, I got him!” Dobbs shouted.

  Boomer jerked to a halt and looked at the sheriff wobbling unsteadily on his knees, his gun gone.

  “So you did, Freddie boy,” the big outlaw said. He hurried forward as Dobbs grappled through the bars with the knocked-out sheriff, searching him for the cell key.

  “Here,” Boomer said. He jerked Stone forward against the bars, turned him around and yanked the long key from hi
s rear trouser pocket. When Stone moaned and tried to stop him, Boomer yanked his head against the bars again and let out a laugh at the muffled ring of iron against skull bone. “Told you, you won’t shoot me,” he said to the limp sheriff lying on the floor.

  Huddled at the front of their cells where a partition of bars separated the two, Dobbs stood and hurried to his cell door as Boomer stood up with the key, unlocked his own cell door and stepped out.

  “Jesus, hurry, Boomer!” Dobbs said, even as the big outlaw stuck the key in and turned it. On the floor, Stone groaned and tried to settle the spinning world around him. As the door swung open, Dobbs said, “What the hell? Were you going to leave me behind?” He stepped out of the cell and clasped his wounded shoulder.

  “I didn’t, though, did I?” said Boomer firmly. He grabbed Dobbs and pulled him toward the cell with the missing window instead of letting him go for the front door. “This way, Freddie. Nobody will see us.”

  The two hurried inside Boomer’s open cell, across chunks of broken rock, over to the open window frame. Boomer picked Dobbs up by the scruff of his neck and hoisted him out of the window. Dobbs hit the ground and looked up, seeing Boomer’s big hands reach through and grab the frame edges and pull himself up and out.

  “Hurry, Boomer!” he said.

  Boomer’s big arms and the upper half of his torso squeezed out of the window frame as if the building were struggling to give him birth. But then he stopped and wiggled back and forth vigorously.

  “I’m stuck, Freddie,” he said, trying to keep his big voice lowered, knowing that behind him the sheriff would come to any minute.

  “Push, push hard, Boomer!” Dobbs said. “I can’t reach you from down here. You’ve got to push yourself through!”

  “I’m trying, Freddie,” Boomer said. He put his hands back flat against the wall on either side and pushed hard. He strained and grunted and twisted back and forth, gaining freedom an inch at a time.

  Behind him, Stone shook his head and batted his bleary eyes. He saw the back half of Boomer Phipps struggling in the window. Looking all around for his Colt, he saw it lying on the floor under the edge of his desk and scrambled over and grabbed it.