by Ralph Cotton
Stone wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, not even trying to keep his hand from shaking. At the far end of the bar, a townsman named Bernard Aires had seen enough. He looked ashamed for the washed-out sheriff. He ventured a step closer, wanting to put an end to Stone’s humiliation. But Rudabaugh wasn’t through, not by a long shot.
“Do you, Stone?” said Rudabaugh. “Want a drink, that is.”
Stone didn’t answer; he didn’t have to. The look on his face said it all. He lowered his eyes, his shoulders slumped as if in defeat.
“Top the sheriff’s coffee off for him, Phil,” Rudabaugh said to the bartender. “We can’t watch a man go dry on us.” He smiled and puffed on the cigar.
“Here you are, Sheriff,” the bartender said, reaching out with a bottle of rye and pouring a stiff shot into the steaming coffee.
But as soon as he’d poured, Stone’s hand clamped down on the rifle stock and swung it hard across the bar top, sending the coffee mug crashing against the wall, barely missing the bartender.
The crowd reared back, a tenseness tightening in the already silent saloon. Rudabaugh and the other men sat poised, their hands ready to grab their guns. But Rudabaugh stopped them with a raised hand, seeing the sheriff’s rifle wasn’t cocked.
“Easy, men,” he said in a lowered tone.
“Damn right, I want a drink,” said Sheriff Stone, the rifle still in hand, coffee and whiskey dripping down the wall behind the bar. “But I don’t drink weakened whiskey.” Without looking at the bartender he banged the rifle barrel on the bar and said, “Give me a bottle, Phil. Hurry it up.”
The bartender looked again at Rudabaugh for permission. Down the empty bar, Bernard Aires ventured a step closer; he couldn’t watch this. But a hard stare from the table stopped him in his tracks.
“Yeah, sure, why not?” Rudabaugh said to the bartender in a grand sweeping gesture, having fun with Stone’s weakness. “Give the sheriff a bottle—it’s on the house.”
The bartender stood the open bottle in his hand on the bar top and reached around for a full one. When he did, Stone laid his rifle down and corked the open bottle and stuck it down into his deep duster pocket. He stared at Rudabaugh. The bartender, unopened bottle in hand, also looked at Rudabaugh for instruction.
“Make it two bottles, Phil,” he said with the same dark chuckle.
The bartender shrugged and stood the fresh bottle on the bar.
“Make it three,” Stone said in a firm tone.
Rudabaugh gave him a curious look. Then he said to the bartender, “Make it three, Phil. I’ve got a feeling the sheriff’s in for a long night.”
Stone shoved the second bottle into his other deep pocket. When the bartender handed him a third, he stuck it up under his arm and started to turn to the front door. Bernard eased toward him again.
“Sheriff,” Rudabaugh called out in a loud startling voice. Aires froze; so did Stone. He turned slowly and looked at Rudabaugh.
Rudabaugh grinned, his voice softening.
“Don’t forget your rifle,” he said cordially.
Amid a burst of long held laughter, Stone lowered his head, turned back and picked up his rifle from the bar top and again headed toward the door.
Aires caught up to him and grabbed his arm.
“Sheriff Stone, don’t do this, please,” he said, speaking quickly. “You’re a better man than this—”
“Get off me,” Stone growled. He rounded his arm away from the townsman. “I know what I’m doing!”
Aires stepped back, fearful of what the sheriff might do to him in this state of mind.
At the bar, customers moved back into position as Stone walked out the doors; the piano started again. At the table, the men looked at Rudabaugh.
“There’s how you nut a lawman without having to use a knife,” he said with a dark chuckle in his voice.
“Damn drunk,” Boyle said. He tossed back a drink as he watched Stone cross the street.
“Want us to slip around back, kill him when he walks into his office?” Garby Dolan asked.
“Shame on you, Dolan,” Rudabaugh said with a short laugh. “Let the man enjoy his day. I figure by afternoon he’ll be facedown on his desk.” He looked Dolan up and down. “Didn’t I hear you’re some kind of expert when it comes to slitting a man’s throat?”
“If you did, you heard right,” Dolan said proudly.
“Then there we are,” Rudabaugh said. “When he’s gone under, you and Boyle and Swank here, go take care of it. Nobody has to hear a sound. Edsel will like that.” He tossed back his drink and let out a whiskey hiss. The others nodded and followed suit.
• • •
At noon, sitting leaned back in chairs on the boardwalk of the Silver Palace, Garby Dolan stropped the blade of his big boot knife on a wide patch of leather lying spread on his knee. Leaning on the front wall beside him, Clayton Boyle straightened as he watched the boy from the restaurant carry a tray of food to the sheriff’s office and stand outside the door.
“What have we got here?” Boyle said, craning his neck.
“I don’t know,” said Dolan, “but it reminds me my belly could use a good filling.” He stopped stropping the knife blade, sipped from a mug of beer and set it back down beside him. “Waiting to kill a man always makes me hungry.”
“There he goes,” said Swank, standing next to Boyle. The boy walked through the opened door and came out a moment later, his hand wrapped in a fist around a small coin. The three men watched the boy hurry back across the dirt street. “Hell,” Swank added, “if Stone’s eating a good meal, he could last all day.”
“So?” said Dolan. “We’re not doing much anyway. Have a mug, relax yourself.”
“Uh-oh,” said Boyle, straightening again as the tray, plate and food came sailing out the sheriff’s open office door and landed clattering at the edge of the street. An empty whiskey bottle sailed out behind it. “One down, two to go,” he added, eying the empty bottle as it stopped rolling.
“Looks like Stone has plumb lost his appetite!” Swank laughed and looked at the other two for further comment.
“Good rye will do that to you,” Dolan said with a nod. “Hope he don’t go turning wolf on us, like I hear he’s prone to do.”
“Maybe this won’t take so long after all.” Boyle grinned and licked his dry lips. “I think I will have that beer, Delbert. Bring me one,” he said over his shoulder as Swank walked inside. “Tell Rudabaugh that our good Sheriff Stone is well on his way to goosing butterflies.”
Swank walked inside, up to the bar, where he pushed his way in through the drinkers and ordered two mugs of beer. When he got them, he walked to a table by the window where Rudabaugh sat dealing himself a hand of solitaire. Rudabaugh took the cigar from between his teeth and without looking up said, “How’s our drunken lawman doing?”
“He’s doing fine, Silas,” Swank replied. He stood holding both mugs of beer in one hand. Thick froth oozed down the mugs and dripped onto the toes on his boots. “Boyle said to tell you he’s on his way to goosing butterflies—whatever that means.”
Rudabaugh started to try to explain, but he caught himself and let out a breath.
“Never mind,” he said. He turned over a card and laid it in place, almost ignoring Swank.
“We had one rye empty bottle fly out the door,” Swank said with a flat grin. “It looks like he’ll be ready for the taking any time now.”
“Good,” said Rudabaugh, “keep me advised.” He turned over another card as Swank moved away toward the door.
• • •
An hour and a half later, a dark-haired English dove who went by the name Rita Spool handed Rudabaugh his hat at the top of the long stairs reaching up to the second floor.
“Why, thank you, darling Rita,” Rudabaugh said politely, taking the hat. “Even though everything he
re is free for me, being the manager and all, I want you to know that I’m going to tell Edsel Centrila what a wonderful gal you are.” He grinned and bit down on his fresh cigar. The dove only gave a half curtsy and walked away down the long hallway.
Down in the saloon Rudabaugh’s table by the window sat empty with a deck of cards half-scattered across it. The saloon was still busy, but less than it had been earlier in the day. Afternoon sunlight streaked in long from the west in the waning heat of evening. Rudabaugh met Delbert Swank as Swank turned away from the empty table and saw him coming down the stairs.
“Yeah, what is it, Delbert?” Rudabaugh said, tired of waiting for Stone to get drunk enough to kill quietly.
“Boyle says to tell you another empty bottle just flew out the door,” Swank said. His words ended as he fought back a beer belch.
“Jesus, it’s about time,” said Rudabaugh. “I was about ready to say just charge the place—shoot him full of holes in broad daylight.”
“Sounds good to me,” Swank said with a slight beer slur in his voice. He started to turn toward the door. Rudabaugh grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“Whoa, hold on,” said Rudabaugh. “I said I was about to say it, but I didn’t say it, did I?”
Swank gave a bleary-eyed grin.
“No, you did not,” he said.
“Tell Boyle I said stay with it a little while longer,” said Rudabaugh. “I think Edsel will get a kick out of us killing Stone this way.”
Swank gazed over at the stairs and up to the second-floor landing.
“Is Harper still up there cooling his jangles?” he asked with a half chuckle.
“No, him and Ferry and Bartow rode off a while ago,” said Rudabaugh. He reflected for a second and said, “I still don’t understand how Stone could have recognized him riding in that time of morning.”
Swank gave his beer-smeared grin.
“Good thing you convinced Stone that he didn’t see him,” he said.
“Yeah, I did good,” Rudabaugh said, blowing out stream of cigar smoke. Then he straightened and said in a no-nonsense tone, “You men aren’t getting drunk, are you?”
“On beer?” said Swank. “Phew, whoever heard of that?”
“Good,” said Rudabaugh. “Get back out there, keep me informed. Soon as it’s good and dark, we’re done with Stone for once and for all.”
Chapter 16
The evening had darkened to a shadowy purple; the street had emptied of the day’s traffic and trade. Lantern light spilled out the open front doors of the Silver Palace where Dolan and Boyle sat watching Delbert Swank walk toward them from the direction of the darkened sheriff’s office. A row of empty beer mugs stood along the bottom of the front wall of the saloon beside empty chairs, the men having abandoned the chairs and moved down to sprawl on the edge of the dirty plank boardwalk. Laughter and piano music resounded.
“What’d you learn?” Boyle asked Swank as he walked back to them with his slight limp. “Why’s it so dark? Is he too drunk to light up a lamp?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” said Swank.
“Is he passed out?” Garby Dolan asked, his sharpened boot knife standing beside him stuck into the boardwalk beside a half-full mug of beer.
“Naw, he’s not passed out,” Swank said. “The drunken fool is singing—talking to himself too.” He stopped and took his mug of beer when Boyle held it up to him. “You ain’t going to believe this, but his gun belt’s lying out front in the dirt by the hitch rail! I saw him throw it, gun and all!”
That caught Dolan and Boyle by surprise. They fell silent for a second. Finally Boyle cleared his throat and spoke as if in wonderment.
“You mean, the sheriff’s gun belt is . . . ?” His words trailed in disbelief.
“Lying in the dirt out front,” Swank said, finishing his words for him. “That’s right,” he added, shaking his head with a beer-induced laugh. “I never seen nothing like it.”
“Neither have I,” said Boyle. “It makes no sense.” He stood and dusted the seat of his trousers.
“No human being can drink two bottles of rye and still be up and around singing out loud!” Dolan said. He pulled his knife from the boardwalk and stood up beside Boyle. The three looked down the empty street. Even in the moonlit darkness they saw the door open at the sheriff’s office. They saw the third empty bottle fly out and crash in the dirt against one of the other empties.
“All right, I’ve had enough of this,” Boyle growled. “We’re going in guns blazing—killing this old peckerwood.”
“But I already sharpened this pigsticker real good,” said Dolan.
“Tough knuckles,” said Boyle. “You can cut him some when we’re finished. Let’s go!” He hiked up his gun belt and started walking.
“What about telling Rudabaugh?” said Swank.
“Last beers I went in and got, he was headed up the stairs again,” said Dolan, catching up to Boyle, walking alongside him.
“Jesus, again?” said Swank. “He must be part jackrabbit.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Boyle. “You feel like interrupting him, go ahead. Not me.”
They walked to the alleyway alongside the sheriff’s office and stepped off the street. With their guns drawn they lined along the wall and listened intently for any sound inside.
“Why’s it dark in there?” Boyle whispered to Swank.
“He’s probably thinks he sounds better in the dark,” Swank said with a beer chuckle. “Look, there’s his gun belt, like I told you.” He gestured toward the holstered gun lying in the dirt beneath the hitch rail out front.
Boyle looked at the gun in the dirt, then turned his gaze back at Swank and Dolan.
“I don’t hear no singing going on,” he said in a suspicious whisper.
“I don’t hear nothing at all,” Dolan put in, also in a whisper.
“Maybe he’s drunk his fool self to death and saved us the trouble,” Swank said. He stifled a little beer laugh.
“That’s real funny, Delbert,” Boyle said with sarcasm. He jerked his head toward the darkened office. “Get your laughing ass up to the front window and see what he’s doing. I’m getting sick of all this.”
“I don’t like doing this,” Swank said, peeping around the front corner of the building.
“Nobody cares what you like or don’t like,” said Boyle. “Get moving. We’ve got you covered.”
Dolan and Boyles loomed at the corner of the building while Swank eased up onto the boardwalk and crept to the small window beside the front door. He crouched and looked inside under the bottom edge of a short curtain, then turned and slipped back to the alley.
“Well?” Boyle asked. “What’s he doing?”
“Nothing,” Swank whispered. “The fool is just sitting in the dark at his desk, with his head bowed.”
“Sitting with his head bowed . . . ?” Boyle said, contemplating the matter.
“Yep,” said Swank, “with his head bowed. So, he’s either praying or he’s knocked-out drunk. Take your pick,” he concluded.
“We’ve spent too long on this fool. Let’s get this done,” said Boyle, running a hand across his dry lips, “I’ve got a beer waiting.”
The three rushed around the corner of the building and stormed the office, guns drawn, cocked and ready, Dolan with his big knife also in hand. Boyle shouldered the door open as he twisted the handle and lunged inside, Dolan and Swank behind him, but spreading out once inside the door. They stood crouched, their guns out at arm’s length pointed at the slump-shouldered character seated behind the desk.
“Wake up and die, Sheriff!” shouted Boyle. He aimed at the top of the sheriff’s hat crown, Stone’s head bowed toward them.
But the still figure at the desk didn’t so much as stir at the sound of the loud voice. Boyle gave the other two a quick nervous glance. They stepped forward as one i
n the purple darkness.
“What’s wrong with him?” Boyle asked.
“How the hell do I—” Swank’s voice stopped. The three heard the floor creak behind them. They spun toward the sound in time to see the black hatless silhouette in the open doorway. Before they could shoot, they saw the small office light up in a flash of blue-orange explosions as both of the sheriff’s shotgun barrels fired at once.
One blast sent Boyle and Swank flying backward over the desk, knocking out the chair that the sheriff had draped his hat and duster over. The other blast bounced Dolan off the bars of a cell and launched him forward, his face and chest filled with buckshot and iron scraps. He staggered dead on his feet. His upper half crashed through the front window and hung there. Boyle lay dead on the other side of Stone’s deck. Swank, badly wounded, dragged himself frantically toward the open door.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he screamed.
Too late. . . .
Stone had tossed the shotgun aside and drawn his Colt from his waist. He cocked it at Swank as the dying man made it half out the open door. Along the dark street, lamps had come on in windows and doorways. Drinkers stepped out of the saloon onto the boardwalk and the street. All over the waking town, faces looked toward the sheriff’s office in dread. They flinched as three revolver shots exploded, causing more blue-orange flashes from the open door of the small darkened office.
“Poor fool’s drunk, shooting up the town again,” Bernard Aires said under his breath. He turned and shook his head and walked back inside his house at the far end of the street. From the open front window above the Silver Palace, Silas Rudabaugh leaned out and craned his neck to see what was going on. All he could see was a drift of burnt powder looming in the purple darkness above Stone’s office. On the street below, townsmen moved toward the office with caution.
“Three dead, Rudabaugh,” Stone’s voice called out. “Come on down here. Make it an even number.”
Three dead? Jesus!
Rudabaugh quickly did the math. If there were three dead, he was the only one left here. He saw the townsmen dash for cover as the sheriff hollered out the invitation. Huh-uh, this was no place to be right now, he told himself. Damn Harper and the other two for riding back out to the hideout. Damn Boyle for making a move without telling him first. Rudabaugh jerked his head back inside the window and started snatching his clothes from a chair where he’d laid them.