Payback at Big Silver

by Ralph Cotton

  “Getting a little edgy, Ranger?” Stone asked, watching him.

  “What? Oh,” Sam said, turning loose of the iron hinge, “maybe so.”

  When he and Stone had finished their coffee and cleaned and loaded their rifles and sidearms, Stone walked to the window himself and looked back and forth along the street, bright from the afternoon sunlight. The piano in the saloon had been silent for the past hour. The day drinkers had left two and three at a time. Few evening drinkers came to replace them. In the cell behind them Harper and Lon Bartow lay dozing on cots.

  “It’ll be dark soon enough,” Stone said over his shoulder. “I’m not waiting any longer—”

  Turning around as he spoke, he stopped suddenly, finding himself staring into the barrel of his own Colt, the Ranger holding it aimed at his face. In reflex his hand slapped against his empty holster. Then he raised both hands chest high.

  “What’s this, Ranger?” he said.

  A handcuff slapped shut around his wrist. The Ranger shoved his wrist back to the window and snapped the other cuff around the iron hinge, ratcheting it down tight.

  “Sorry, Sheriff,” he said. “This is me making you listen to reason.”

  “Listen to reason?” said Stone. “I am listening to reason!” He jerked against the handcuff. “Turn me loose. I’ve got to get Mae Rose loose from Centrila and his cutthroats! What the hell has come over you?”

  “You said yourself, Sheriff,” Sam replied, “that if Edsel wanted to trade Mae Rose for Harper you would do it. I can’t allow that.”

  “That was just me talking, Ranger!” said Stone. “There’s no way I’d do it!”

  “Too late, Stone,” Sam said. “You’ll say anything now to get me to take those cuffs off your wrist. I can deal with Centrila coolheaded. But you can’t. You’re too close to the woman to handle this the way it’s got to be handled.”

  “So help me God, Ranger, if you get her killed,” Stone said in a barely controlled rage.

  “I won’t get her killed, Stone,” Sam said, “not if I play this out my own way. Centrila will never believe that you’re willing to give up this vendetta between the two of you. He’ll be watching every move you make, ready for you to try a double cross.”

  “You don’t know him like I do, Ranger,” Stone said. He tugged angrily on the shutter hinge. “Edsel is the king of the double cross. He’ll chew you up and spit you out. Turn me loose! Dang it, Ranger!”

  Sam pointed a finger close to Stone’s face. “See? This is why I cuffed you. If the least little thing went wrong while we stood in front of Centrila and his men, you and he would both blow up and turn it into a bloodbath.”

  “You can’t do this to me, Ranger!” Stone raged.

  Sam looked at the sleeping prisoners, seeing that Stone’s raised voice hadn’t waked them. Then he walked around behind Stone’s desk, sat down and slumped for a moment in the sheriff’s chair, Stone’s big Colt on his lap.

  “I don’t like doing it, Sheriff,” he said, “but here’s how it is.” He laid Stone’s gun on the desk and made sure Stone saw him lay the handcuff key beside it. “You cool yourself out some. When you figure out how to get yourself loose, your gun is here waiting for you. By then you’ll know I’m right. You won’t come barging in once this thing is in play.”

  “Wait, Ranger. Listen!” Stone said as Sam picked up his Winchester and walked to the door. “All right, I did mean what I said. I would trade Harper for Mae Rose.” He was talking fast as Sam opened the door to leave. “You know why? Because it’s the right thing to do!” He saw the door closing behind the Ranger. “Make the trade, Ranger. For God’s sakes, make the trade!”

  Sam listened to the sheriff shout from inside the shuttered front window. But he refused to listen. He leaned against the door for a moment, then straightened and walked across the boardwalk, stepping down onto the street.

  Here goes. . . .

  He walked purposefully along the middle of the street, wanting to be clearly seen from the Silver Palace—from the upstairs window overlooking the street. On the balcony, Charlie Knapp caught sight of him as soon as he’d stepped away from the sheriff’s office.

  “Edsel,” he said over his shoulder, “the Ranger’s coming.

  “What? The Ranger?” said Centrila. He stepped out onto the balcony beside Knapp and jerked his cigar from his mouth. “Can’t he get it through his head this is personal vengeance, between Stone and me!”

  Knapp gave him a dubious look.

  “I don’t know,” he said wryly. “Him being a lawman, maybe he just figures jailbreak and killing the guards makes it his business?”

  Centrila spun a half turn and stared at him.

  “Are you being funny with me, Charlie?” he growled.

  “No, sir, sorry, boss,” Knapp said. He lowered his eyes. Behind him the other men stood inside the front-most room they had taken over. Mae Rose lay on a bed; Rita Spool sat on the bed’s edge, touching a wet cloth to her badly bruised and swollen face.

  “These pigs didn’t have to beat you this way, love,” Rita whispered near her ear in her lingering Cockney accent.

  “I—I told them everything . . . ,” Mae Rose replied in a painful whisper, “. . . about . . . Shep and me.”

  Shep and me . . . ?

  Rita considered her words.

  “You and the sheriff?” she said, with surprise.

  Mae Rose only nodded slightly.

  “My, my. Then,” Rita whispered, touching the cloth to Mae Rose’s black-purple eyes, “the sheriff is not going to like this one bit.”

  Behind the two women, Edsel Centrila stepped forward and leaned in close over Rita’s shoulder.

  “How’s our dear little dove doing here?” he asked, inspecting Mae Rose’s battered face.

  “She’s been badly beaten, that’s how,” Rita said in a crisp tone. She gave Edsel a harsh glance. Behind Edsel, Knapp gave her a flat, menacing grin.

  “You can cover most of this with powder and rouge,” said Centrila.

  “Rouge will only make it look worse,” Rita said.

  “Nonsense,” said Centrila. “My late wife did it all the time.”

  Late wife . . .

  “Did she indeed?” Rita said.

  “Oh yeah, all the time,” said Centrila. “Now you hop around here, prontolike, see what you can come up with.” He looked all around. “I know you doves keep lots of stuff like that on hand.” He leaned down to Mae Rose. “Honey, don’t you worry about nothing here. Rita will have you looking as sweet as a peach for that sheriff of yours.”

  “You’re bloody joking!” Rita said, gesturing toward Mae Rose’s swollen, battered face.

  Edsel clamped a big hand down on Rita’s shoulder and gave a quick hard squeeze.

  Mae Rose managed to open her swollen eyes a little and turn them up to Charlie Knapp.

  “He . . . was going to . . . slit my throat,” she rasped.

  “Now, now,” Centrila cut in, “let’s have none of that kind of unproductive talk.” He gave a tight, thin smile. “Anyway, that was hours ago. We’re all of the same accord now.” He straightened and tugged at his vest and motioned Knapp aside, away from the bed and away from the gathered gunmen.

  “I don’t like seeing the Ranger come here instead of Stone,” he said. “I want to trade this dove for my son, but we’ve got to get things off on the right foot. This Ranger can’t handle me when it comes to negotiating. But I want to establish myself as being in charge from the get go.”

  Knapp nodded, looking his boss up and down.

  “What do you want me to do?” he said.

  “You and the men get down there before me,” said Centrila, “meet him when he gets here. He’s going to want to see me—but don’t let him, not right off. Make him think this is more important to him than it is to me.” He blew a thin stream of
smoke to the ceiling. “That’s called taking a winning position,” he said with an air of superiority. “It works every time. Keep him waiting, keep turning him down. I’ll be listening. At the right time I’ll step in and take over. He won’t know what hit him.”

  “You got it, boss,” said Knapp, liking the way Centrila handled things.

  • • •

  The Ranger saw the gunmen file out of the Silver Palace onto the boardwalk. The six of them stood in a row facing him. At their center stood Charlie Knapp. Behind them the inside of the saloon looked deserted. The drinkers had seen enough to know that the trouble between Centrila and Sheriff Stone was at full boil. The Ranger walking down the middle of the street, Winchester in hand, only proved it.

  “Top of the evening to you, Ranger,” Knapp called out, both thumbs hooked behind his gun belt, a rifle hanging over his left forearm. He had planned to tell the Ranger to stop right there, that’s close enough. But before he got the chance, Sam stopped twenty feet away, looked from one gunman’s face to the next, then settled onto the leader’s.

  “I’m here to see Edsel Centrila,” Sam said, no nonsense, no short talk.

  “Just like that, huh?” said Knapp. He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.

  “Yes, just like that,” Sam said firmly. He offered nothing more on the matter.

  “You can’t see him,” Knapp said, putting him off. “In case you don’t know it, Mr. Centrila is a busy man.” He waited. Here it came. The Ranger would press, but he’d stall him some more. Knapp gave a thin smile, prepared for a drawn-out situation.

  Sam nodded, looked around again.

  “I understand,” he said quietly. He turned around, started to walk away.

  Knapp, taken aback by the Ranger’s unexpected reaction, batted his eyes and collected himself quickly.

  “Hold on, Ranger,” he called out. “What is it you want to see him about? Maybe I can tell him and see what he says—”

  “He knows we’ve got Harper in jail,” Sam said, stopping, turning back toward him. He held the rifle in a pistol grip, cocked, ready, his finger on the trigger. “When I get back to the jail, Stone says he’s going to shoot him and pitch him into the street,” he added calmly. He turned again to walk away.

  “Whoa there! Ranger Burrack!” Centrila shouted, springing from his listening spot inside the saloon doors. “What’s this you’re saying?” He skidded to a halt beside Knapp.

  Sam stopped and turned back around.

  “I left Stone handcuffed to the front window shutter,” he said to Centrila. “When I get back I’m cutting him loose. Stone can do what suits him. I’m done with this.”

  “That’s it?” Centrila said, looking stunned. “That’s what you came to tell me?” As he spoke he gave Lyle Cady a nod toward the jail. Lyle ran to his horse, jumped atop it and raced off to see if the Ranger was lying.

  “That’s it,” Sam said. Again he started to turn away; again Centrila stopped him.

  Lyle Cady bounded across the boardwalk out in front of the jail, leaped back atop the horse and came racing down the street in a cloud of rising dust.

  “He’s right, boss,” Lyle said. “Stone’s standing cuffed to a window shutter. I saw in through a gun port.”

  Centrila nodded and stared at Sam.

  “What about the woman?” he said. “What about a trade? The woman for my son? We can work something out here. I know we can!”

  Sam stared at him poker-faced.

  “What woman?” he asked flatly.

  Centrila stared at him.

  “The sheriff’s dove, Mae Rose,” he said. “We’ve got her. Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

  “I know you’ve got her,” Sam said. “But I didn’t come here to trade. I’m here to enforce the law.”

  “Oh? Enforce the law how?” Centrila said. “By shooting Harper and throwing him into the street?”

  “That’s the sheriff’s call,” Sam said. “My job was to bring him to justice for breaking jail and killing the guards. That’s done. I’m out of here. Stone will handle the rest of it. I came to tell you how things stand. Nothing else.”

  “You can’t just pull out of this thing, Ranger,” Centrila shouted. “Stone will kill my son, just to satisfy his own vengeance!”

  “That is a possibility,” Sam said. “Especially since you’ve got his woman.”

  Centrila spread his hands in a shrug of desperation.

  “But I’m willing to trade the woman,” he said. “You can have her safe and sound. I just want Harper . . . and Lonnie Bartow too, of course,” he added in afterthought. “Let’s make a deal here.”

  Sam seemed to consider it. The gunmen stood silent, watching, waiting, all except for Bob Remick.

  “Ha!” Remick scoffed, taking a step forward. “This is all one big bluff! Stone’s not going to shoot Harper, and this Ranger ain’t going to—”

  Sam’s rifle bucked and exploded in his hand. The shot hit Remick dead center, hurled him crashing backward through the large glass window of the Silver Palace. Remick landed inside, one boot resting on the window ledge. His boot rocked twice, then slumped onto its side.

  The rest of the gunmen tensed, ready to start shooting. So did the Ranger, levering a fresh round into his smoking Winchester. But Centrila raised his hands to his men, stopping them.

  “Everybody stand down!” he shouted. “Damn it, stand down!” he repeated, seeing Remick’s cousin, Trent Baye, ready to leap forward with his rifle raised.

  “Edsel, Bob Remick’s my cousin,” Baye said. “I can’t let this go unavenged!”

  “I said stand down!” Centrila shouted. He shoved Baye’s rifle down at the ground. “Charlie! If he raises his gun, shoot him!” he demanded.

  • • •

  Sam stood with his rifle ready, cocked and poised to fire again. He looked from face to face as if asking who wanted the next round.

  “There’s no room for bluffing here,” he said to everyone listening. “No bluffing, no payback games. I’m here for the law, nothing else.”

  Centrila turned away from the gunmen and stepped down onto the dirt street, closer to the Ranger.

  “You were thinking about it, Ranger, I could tell,” he said in a lowered voice, careful not to be heard by his gunmen. “Don’t let that idiot spoil everything.” He gestured toward Remick’s body lying inside the window frame.

  Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Stone’s dove is unharmed?” he asked, as if making up his mind.

  “Yes, she’s unharmed,” Centrila lied. “Fresh as morning dew. You have my word on it.”

  “Get her,” Sam said in a resolved tone. “Bring her to the jail. I want this thing over and done with.”

  Chapter 23

  Dozing in their cell, Lon Bartow and Harper Centrila had awakened moments earlier to the sound of Sheriff Stone shouting at the Ranger, who had just closed the door behind himself. The two prisoners looked at each, at the sheriff standing cuffed to the window shutter, then at the gun and cell key lying on the oak desk.

  “You two stay right where you are,” Stone said, seeing their intentions in their eyes.

  “Yeah, sure, law dog,” Harper said over his shoulder. He picked up his wooden-framed cot and slammed it to pieces on the hard plank floor. As it broke, Bartow stooped and stripped the woven rope from among the debris and stretched it out between his hands. Harper found a broken corner piece of the bed frame and tied the rope around it.

  Stone looked all around quickly. Seeing nothing else to do, he cursed the Ranger under his breath and stretched out as far as his handcuff would allow. He hooked his boot toe around the short leg of the desk and tried to drag it to him, farther out of the prisoners’ reach. But it didn’t work. Seeing what he was doing, Harper hurriedly swung the rope out from between the bars and hooked the corne
r bed piece around the short leg closest to him.

  The sheriff and the prisoners played tug-of-war with the desk. The desk bumped up and down from the two opposing forces pulling against it. With so much pressure between the sheriff’s boot toe and the prisoner’s taut rope, finally the leg broke on the prisoners’ end and the desk slammed down six inches to the floor. The weight jarred the entire office; the big gun and the cell key slid off the desktop and bounced and landed less than three feet from the barred cell.

  “Yee-hi!” Bartow shouted. He reached through the bars, grabbed the gun and handed it up to Harper.

  Turned hefted the gun in his hand and gave Stone a menacing grin.

  “Now it’s my gun,” he said calmly. “You stand there like a good boy. Keep nice and quiet.”

  Stone stood rigid, knowing what came next.

  “Why?” he said. “What have I got to lose?”

  On the cell floor, Bartow snatched the cell key in his fist and stood and held it up for the sheriff to see. He cackled with dark laughter and shuffled his boots on the floor in a strange little dance.

  Harper took a deep breath, cocked the big Colt and held it out at arm’s length through the bars, aimed at Stone.

  “You’ve got a point there, Sheriff,” he said. Bartow stood with his arm already stuck through the bars ready to stick the key into the cell lock. He stopped long enough to watch.

  “Shoot him square in the head!” he said, a sharp gleam in his widened feral eyes.

  “Adios, law dog,” Harper said, holding tight aim, his left eye squeezed shut. He pulled the trigger; the hammer fell. Bartow flinched, but the gun only clicked in Harper’s hand.

  “The hell . . . ?” said Bartow.

  Stone had tightened his chest for the oncoming blast. Now he released it. He stood staring.

  “Damn misfire,” Harper said. He looked at the gun, then recocked and reaimed. He pulled the trigger. Still the gun only clicked in his hand.

  “Jesus, Harper!” said Bartow, still holding the key ready.

  “Shut up, Lon. I’ve got it,” said Harper. He shook the gun as if that might solve the problem. He recocked quickly and pulled the trigger again. “Damn it! Damn it to hell!” He tried twice more. Nothing! He slung the gun sideways in his hand and opened the gate, checking it. Bartow looked on intently.