by Ralph Cotton
Stone removed his hat and parked the cough drop in his jaw as the door opened. He looked at the woman’s face in the shadowy morning light.
“Mae Rose,” he said in a lowered, almost troubled-sounding voice, “are you alone?”
The door opened some more as the young woman stepped back. She wore soft house slippers, a robe with its sash tied loosely at her narrow waist.
“Yes, Shep, I’m alone,” she replied stiffly. She glanced along the hallway, motioned him inside and closed the door behind him. She leaned against the door and studied his face questioningly, then lowered her eyes. “I must look a mess.”
“Look at me, Mae Rose,” Stone said. He stepped forward and tipped her chin up and gazed into her eyes. “If you were any prettier, I don’t think I could stand it.”
“Go on with you, Sheriff,” she said, giving him a bashful toss-away look. “Besides, you’ve got some nerve showing up here. I don’t see you for a month . . . then I hear that you got drunk, shot up the town, thought you turned into a wolf or some such nonsense?”
“That’s right, I thought I was a wolf, Mae Rose,” Stone said. “I got drunk and shot up the town. I lost my mind. There, that’s my confession, satisfied?” he said. He studied the younger woman’s face in the dim morning light, a silver pin holding back long ringlets of her red hair, a trace of freckles sprinkled across her nose.
“It’s a start,” she said. She let out a breath in exasperation and stepped forward against him. Her arms went around him. “Come here, Sheriff, let me take hold of you.” Her voice changed that quick, from surly, inconsolable, to soothing, inviting.
Always at her work. . . .
Stone smiled tightly, returned her embrace, but he spoke down to her as she rested her face against his chest.
“I’m not here for that, Mae Rose,” he said softly.
“Oh?” She looked up at him, released him a little. “What about me?” she said coyly. “What if it’s something that I want, Mr. Law Hawk?”
“I’m not here to play around, Mae Rose,” he said, knowing the game. He lifted her arms from around him gently and took a step back. He reached inside his duster and took out a leather drawstring pouch. “I’ve come to bring you this.” He jiggled the pouch and saw her eyes brighten at the muffled sound of gold coins.
“Oh my, Sheriff,” she said, “I see you still know how to tickle a gal’s fun spot.” She smiled playfully. But she saw the sheriff’s serious expression and settled. “What is it you want me to do, for all that gold?” she said suggestively. She reached out and stroked the leather pouch as he held it chest high.
“I want you to take it and get headed back to Denver City tonight,” Stone said. He held the pouch up.
“Tonight?” said Mae Rose. “Why tonight?”
“Why not tonight?” Stone said, jiggling the bulging pouch of gold coins. “Take a horse, go after dark so nobody sees you leave. Ride to Secondary and take the stage north from there. The trail to Secondary is always safe of a night—but watch yourself just the same,” he instructed. “There’s enough gold here to last you awhile, get you settled in.” Seeing the questioning look on her face, he added, “You’re always saying you want to go back there. Now that this place has changed hands, I figured I’d stake your trip.” He released the pouch to her. “You won’t like working for Edsel Centrila. He’s a snake.”
“Oh?” said Mae Rose, chiding him a little. “Imagine, a snake in the saloon and brothel business. What’s this world come to?”
Stone’s face reddened a little; he smiled thinly.
“Take this serious, Mae Rose,” he warned. “Centrila has some dangerous men working for him.”
“Okay, I’m serious, Sheriff,” she said. She spread the drawstring open and looked down at the glint of gold in the dim light. She looked back up at Stone.
“My goodness, Shep,” she said ponderously. She hefted the pouch on both palms. Then she said, “I get set up there, and you’ll come join me later—like we’ve talked about?”
Stone stalled for a second. That thought hadn’t occurred to him until she mentioned it.
“Yes,” he said finally, “that’s my plan. I’ll be coming later on.”
She looked suspicious.
“You’re not a good liar, Sheriff,” she said. “You’re not planning on coming to Denver City.” She jiggled the gold coins in the pouch. “What’s this about?”
Stone shook his head.
“I’ve never seen a woman in your profession have such a hard time taking gold from a man,” he said, sounding a little put out by her questions.
“Well, you’ve seen it now,” Mae Rose said in a firm tone. “So tell me,” she insisted.
Stone cursed to himself under his breath. His fingers trembled as he took the last cough drop from the small wax paper bag in his shirt pocket. He stuck the cough drop into his mouth and wadded the bag in his hand. He looked around for a place to put the empty bag. Mae Rose reached out and took the wadded bag from him.
“All right,” he said, “here it is. You know about the bad blood between Edsel Centrila—your new boss—and me?”
Mae Rose shrugged, her hand on her hip, the pouch of gold in her other hand.
“I have heard some things, not enough to hang a hat on,” she said. “I heard he gave you some money to do a favor for him . . . but you didn’t do it?” She eyed the pouch of gold coins.
“He tried to get me to bribe a judge to get his son, Harper, out of going to Yuma Penitentiary,” Stone said. “He’s likely going to face charges for it.”
“Yes, that is what I heard,” she now admitted. “But what’s any of this got to do with me?”
“I don’t want him getting his hands on anything or anybody that he knows will hurt me,” said Stone.
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Mae Rose said, half-playful, half-moved by Stone’s words. “I mean, you caring what happens to me,” she added.
Stone looked a little embarrassed.
“Well, I do,” he said a little gruffly. “What of it?”
Mae Rose slipped the pouch of gold coins into her robe pocket and kept her hand around it.
“Nothing of it,” she said. “I just think it’s sweet of you, is all.”
Stone just looked at her. Again he saw her demeanor change in the blink of an eye. She went from soft and sentimental, to a little edgy, matter-of-fact.
“Nobody knows about you and me, Sheriff,” she said. “Leastwise I’ve never told anybody. What about you?”
“Nobody,” Stone said. “It was nobody’s business, I always figured.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” Mae Rose said, her hand still clutched around the pouch as if he might change his mind and demand that she give it back. But Stone had no such intention.
“It wasn’t me I was worrying about, Mae Rose,” he said, gravity in his voice.
Mae Rose took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I know, Sheriff,” she said, “and I’m obliged.” She stood running things through her mind.
“Then you’ll go to Denver City, like I’m asking you to?” Stone said.
She waited another second before answering. Then she raised her hand from her robe pocket and nodded.
“Yes, I’ll go,” she said. “Truth is, I’m through with Big Silver. Now that you’ve given me a way out, I might go there and quit this business altogether.”
Stone smiled and started to raise his hat and set it atop his head.
“Can you stay awhile, just talk some, Sheriff?” she asked. “I’ll get us some coffee and get right back up.” She smiled. “You look like a man who could use some talk.”
Stone let his hat and his hand drop back to his side.
“I expect I could use some talk, Mae Rose,” he said, “some coffee too, I’d be obliged.” He already knew he wasn’t about to tell her
about anything going on inside his head. She didn’t need to hear any of that, and he didn’t need to reveal it. He let out a breath and relaxed. This was good, he told himself—a time-out.
• • •
When Stone left through the rear door a half hour later, he walked a block down the alley behind the Silver Palace. He made his way back to the street and crossed it amid the morning wagon and horseback traffic. He continued on to another alleyway, one running beside the undertaker’s where a dusty black hearse sat, its brass trimmings gleaming sharply in the midmorning sunlight. Along the alleyway pine coffins stood leaning against the wall of the adobe mortuary building.
Inside the building, the strong smell of chemicals permeated the stall warm air as he walked past the viewing room on his left to an open office door near the rear of the building. Seeing the sheriff at his office door, the town undertaker and tonsorial parlor owner, Braden Goss, stood up and tugged at his black linen vest.
“Morning, Sheriff, do come in,” Goss said. Sunlight through a window strategically formed a halo around his shiny bald head.
“Morning, Goss,” Stone said quietly. “Don’t get up on my account.” He raised five gold coins from inside his duster lapel and stood the glistening coins in a short stack atop Goss’s desk.
“Oh, I see,” Goss said, never quite comfortable around men who carried guns, be they outlaw or lawman.
“That should square us . . . and something extra for yourself,” the sheriff said, nodding down at the gold coins.
“Indeed, then,” said Goss. He gave a thin, mirthless undertaker’s smile. “It’s not necessary to offer something extra,” he said. “Yet always appreciated,” he added quickly as his hand shot out, snagged the stack of coins and made them disappear into his clothing like some practicing magician.
Stone waved a hand slightly at the spot the coins had occupied on the desk.
“I believe that straightens me out?” he said.
“Straightens you out . . . ?” It took the undertaker a second to comprehend, given the sheriff’s choice of words on the matter. But he managed to catch up.
“Oh, of course, straighten out your arrangement account,” he said. “Why, yes, it certainly does.” He looked Stone up and down with concern. “I do hope everything is all right with you?”
Stone eyed him.
“Couldn’t be better,” he said, a little wryly. He realized that like Mae Rose, everybody in Big Silver knew there was trouble of some sort brewing between him and the new owner of the Silver Palace.
“Good, good!” said Goss. He cleared his throat and added, “If I appear a bit caught off, Sheriff, I beg your pardon. It’s unusual for someone to pay for my services in advance, the way you’ve been doing.”
“I understand,” Stone said. “I don’t like leaving things loose-ended.”
“Yes, I see,” said Goss. “I’ll prepare a receipt for the entire amount, paid in full. Always pays to keep a receipt, doesn’t it?” He sat down, opened a drawer. “In case some question should arise regarding the transaction . . .” His words trailed away as he saw how Stone stared at him.
“Why,” Stone said, “won’t you remember it?”
Goss closed the drawer, stood up.
“Certainly. Yes, I will indeed remember it,” he said. Again he tugged at the corners of his vest. “Let me commend you on your prudent nature, Sheriff Stone. Some never give thought to their burial preparations.” He paused and added, “Now, what would you like submitted onto your grave marker?”
“Just my name,” Stone said, “and the day I went under.” He touched his fingers to his hat brim. “Done, then?” he said.
“Yes, I will see to it, should the time ever come, God forbid of course,” Goss said.
“Of course,” Stone said. He turned and walked out the door, past the standing pine coffins, back onto the street.
Walking back along the busy street across from the Silver Palace, he stopped and stood staring ahead at five dusty sweat-streaked horses standing at the hitch rail out in front of the busy saloon. There it was, he reminded himself, just as he’d seen it earlier. There stood the big bay he’d seen Harper Centrila riding hard across the sand flats.
Explain that, Doctor.
He felt a ring of cold ring of sweat around his hatband. But he knew it wasn’t from fear; it was the eeriness surrounding him, clutching him like some cold, bony fist. He stepped back, off the boardwalk into an alleyway, and stood there breathing slowly and evenly until his hands felt calmer, steadier. All right, he reassured himself, it was the whiskey after all. He felt better now, much better—so get on with it.
He raised his Colt from its holster, checked it and slid it into its smooth leather bed. He checked his rifle and left his four fingers inside its lever, his thumb across the hammer, ready to cock it.
Here goes. . . .
Chapter 15
Inside the Silver Palace Saloon, the drinkers along the polished wooden bar stood elbow to elbow, in spite of the early hour. Behind the bar, two bartenders busily filled glasses with whiskey, mugs with beer. They pulled up black cigars from a tin and laid them in front of drinkers who’d asked for them. They poured steaming coffee for men who preferred it this time of day. Boiled eggs and pickles dripped from large jars and were laid out on saucers. Men gathered and discussed what changes might be expected now that the place had changed hands.
A piano player had seated himself and already played through one number, and made a few springy passes at “Oh! Susanna,” when he noted the talking and clatter behind him had stopped. He stopped along with it and looked around at Sheriff Stone standing inside the open front doors.
“Top of the morning, Sheriff,” one of the bartenders called out to Stone. “What might I serve you?” Even as he spoke he noted the sheriff’s red, hollow eyes, a tightness to his troubled pale face. A man who needed a drink if ever he’d seen one.
“Coffee,” Stone said flatly.
The drinkers melted away, leaving a wide, empty space for him as he walked over and laid his rifle atop the bar. All the while he kept a cold stare on four men seated at a table by a side window. The bartender also stared at the four, as if needing someone’s permission in order to serve the red-eyed, haggard-looking lawman.
“Coffee for the sheriff, Phil,” said Rudabaugh, who sat at the table with a full view of Stone and the bar. He looked Stone up and down with scrutinizing eyes and gave a chuff. “Better make it good and strong, from the looks of him.”
A few customers gave short nervous laughs. Stone quieted them with a sidelong glance. The bartender stepped away, filled a mug with steaming coffee and set it on the bar.
“I came here for Harper Centrila,” Stone said.
“Harper Centrila?” said Rudabaugh. He and the other men looked at each other. Rudabaugh gave a thin, faint smile. “Maybe your memory ain’t what it should be of late, Stone,” he said, “but Harper Centrila is on his way to Yuma, last I heard.” He looked around at the others and asked, “Anybody heard anything different?”
“Naw, that’s what we all heard,” said Boyle, staring hard at Stone.
“Anyway, as you can see, he ain’t here,” said Rudabaugh. He swung his arm around the saloon as if to make his point. Customers watched in tense silence. “If he is, we can’t see him.” He leaned slightly and looked under the table. “Harper, are you under there? Come on out. You’re upsetting the sheriff.”
A nervous ripple of laughter moved across the room, then fell away. Rudabaugh smiled.
“There, you see? No Harper Centrila here,” he said with a shrug.
Stone stared, unamused, his rifle lying atop the bar, next to the steaming coffee.
“That’s his bay at the rail,” Stone said. “I saw him riding in off the flats. Him and four others. I’m guessing two of them were you and Three-toed Delbert there.”
Swank look
ed surprised that the sheriff even knew his name. He straightened in his chair a little, his hand poised at his side near a holstered Remington.
“Sheriff, Sheriff . . . ,” Rudabaugh said quietly, shaking his head a little. “You’re making the customers nervous, talking this way, seeing things. Maybe you need something stout poured in your coffee. Give it some bristle and bite?”
“I saw him. He’s here!” Stone demanded. He heard the desperation in his own voice, felt himself starting to boil inside. He didn’t like it. This wasn’t his way of coming into a gunfight. The men were goading him, taunting him. This was no way to handle himself. He knew how crazy this was starting to look to the customers—the ones who would be witnesses after he blew up and shot it out with these gunmen. Easy, Sheriff, he cautioned himself. He could smell the pungent aroma of whiskey, the odor of countless spills of beer soaked into the wooden catwalk behind the bar. Damn it! It smelled good to him.
On one side of Rudabaugh sat Donald Ferry. On his other side sat Boyle. Next to him, Garby Dolan, who’d found the bodies of the two riflemen, Marlin Oakley and Monk Barber, whom Rudabaugh had sent to ambush the Ranger. Next to Dolan sat Three-toed Delbert Swank. Stone noted that Rudabaugh and Swank carried a patina of fresh trail dust on their shoulders, their hats, boots. The other three did not.
Rudabaugh watched Stone look confused, as if he suddenly wasn’t aware of what he was doing here. He smiled and raised a cigar to his lips, letting the sheriff see him move his hand away from his gun butt. This was what Edsel Centrila wanted, he thought. Centrila wanted him to pick at the old lawman like a kid picking at a sick rattlesnake. He could do that, no problem.
Look at him, Rudabaugh thought. This man was not a threat. Rudabaugh and his men could pick at this old whiskey sop. They could taunt him, jeer at him. When the right moment came, they would drop him dead in his tracks and walk away.
“Sheriff, you all right over there?” he said, with a dark chuckle in his voice. “Looks like you mighta lost your berries.”
“Naw,” said Boyle, grinning, “he looks like he needs a drink.”