Bullets Over Bedlam

by Peter Brandvold

  Her hand was doing what she’d intended. Hawk cursed, flung the quilt and her hand aside, and crawled out of bed. Naked, he padded over to the chair where Saradee’s two Colts were wrapped in their cartridge belt.

  He shucked one of the guns. Reclining on an elbow, her rose-tipped breasts slanting toward the bed, Saradee watched him uncertainly.

  Hawk opened the loading gate and emptied the cylinder onto the floor. The bullets clinked and rolled. When he’d unloaded the other gun in the same fashion, he shoved both back into their holsters.

  “Don’t trust me?”

  “Your reputation precedes you.”

  She’d brought a bottle. He grabbed it off the washstand, popped the cork, and took a long swig. He set the bottle back on the stand, walked back to the bed, and sat on the edge.

  “How long you been trailin’ me?”

  She shrugged. “A couple days.”

  He reached out, slid a lock of copper-colored hair away from her face with the back of his hand, hooked it behind her ear. His voice was at once soft and firm. “You keep doggin’ me, I will kill you.”

  Holding his gaze, her eyes flashed with tiny javelins. “I wouldn’t blame you,” she said, just above a whisper, keeping her eyes on his. She turned slowly onto her right shoulder, pulled the pillow down to her hips, and turned onto it, lying breasts-down against the sheets. She lifted her head, threw her hair back, adjusted the pillow with her thighs, and stuck her round, pink rump in the air.

  “I wouldn’t blame you a bit.” She sighed and lay her cheek on the sheet. “Kill me once more tonight, lover. Then we’ll see who kills who next time we meet.”

  United States Territorial Marshal D.W. “Dutch” Flagg strode along the south side of the main street in Cartridge Springs, hat pulled down over his forehead, boots pounding the boardwalk, arms swinging stiffly at his sides.

  Flagg’s gray brows were furrowed over his wide-set eyes, and his cheeks above his thin, gray beard were brick red—a product of the chill morning wind and a lifelong weakness for brandy.

  As a particularly cold gust whistled between the false fronts, Flagg winced and raised the collar of his corduroy jacket against his neck. Snagging an empty whiskey bottle with his boot toe, skidding it off down the walk, Flagg stopped before the St. Louis Hotel.

  The main window was dark, but a light shone in the back. The St. Louis didn’t look like Hawk’s kind of digs, but it was worth a try.

  Habitually brushing his hand against the walnut-gripped Remington holstered under his jacket, the lawman reached for the door handle. Someone whistled, barely audible beneath the breeze.

  Flagg stopped and peered up the street. Three men stood in the middle of a crossroads one block west, facing Flagg, all wearing dusters, two holding Winchesters across their chests, the third with a double-bore shotgun. Their copper badges flashed in the faint, predawn light.

  One of the deputies canted his head toward a cross street and beckoned to Flagg.

  Flagg glanced over his right shoulder. A half block away, on the other side of the street, three more deputies were walking along the opposite boardwalk. Flagg beckoned to the men, then stepped off the boardwalk and headed for the three at the crossroads.

  “What?” Flagg said as he approached deputies Miller, Villard, and Tuttle.

  Miller spat a tobacco quid. “A freighter told us he seen a man matching Hawk’s description headed for the Saguaro Hotel yonder.”

  “Saw,” Flagg said with a self-righteous sneer.

  Miller slitted an eye. “What?”

  Flagg shook his head with disgust. “He saw a man headed for the hotel. You’re senior deputy, Miller. Please learn to talk like one.”

  Flagg wheeled, jerked his head at the three approaching deputies, and headed up the cross street. Behind him, Miller glanced at Villard.

  “Contrary cuss, ain’t he?”

  Villard snorted and started after Flagg. “A man who’s set his hat for the governor’s office can’t ’sociate with men who say seen when they shoulda said saw.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Dummy.”

  “Yeah,” Miller sneered, half a step behind Villard. “You Cajuns talk real good.”

  At the head of the pack of deputies, Flagg approached the Saguaro Hotel. He mounted the stoop, and, hand on his pistol butt, opened the front door. Flagg stepped into the misty-dark lobby, boot thuds cushioned by a thick rug, and looked around cautiously as he headed for the front desk.

  To his left, flanked by a potted palm, a wizened oldster with thin gray hair sat in an overstuffed easy chair, head thrown back, lower jaw sagging. A big, tortoiseshell cat slept on the old man’s left thigh, sphinxlike, while silver-framed spectacles rested on the man’s other knee.

  The oldster snored softly. A clock ticked woodenly, accenting the predawn silence.

  Flagg crossed to the man, looked down as the other deputies ranged out in a semicircle behind him, holding their rifles and shotguns in both hands and glancing at the stairs.

  The cat leapt to the floor with an indignant trill, then disappeared through a door flanking the front desk. The old man’s eyes snapped wide. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Flagg pressed a finger to his lips.

  The man stared bug-eyed at the gray-bearded lawman, his rheumy eyes warily sweeping the well-armed deputies behind him.

  Hand still resting on his pistol butt and stretching a cautious gaze toward the staircase, stray light glistening on the varnished mahogany, Flagg spoke softly. “You have a man registered here—big man with green eyes and dark-brown hair. Wears a black hat and a sheepskin vest.” Flagg arched a silver brow at the old man. “Correct?”

  The old man donned his glasses, folding the bows back behind his pouch-lobed, red ears. “The man sure gets a lot o’ company.”

  “Who else?”

  “Woman came in last night. Said she was a friend.”

  “Whore?”

  “Wasn’t painted up, but then, I don’t keep up with the fashions.” The old man snorted. “Wore two guns on her waist, like Calamity Jane Canary. Rather . . . uh . . . bold young lady.”

  “She still up there?”

  “Far as I know. I reckon I nodded off.”

  Flagg glanced at Villard and Miller on his left, then switched his gaze to the stairs rising into the second-story shadows. Without looking at the old man, he said, “Which room?”

  “Six.”

  Flagg drew a breath and moved toward the stairs. “Obliged.” At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and, stooping to grab the heel of his left boot, turned to the others. “Take off your boots.”

  J.C. Garth grunted, “Huh?”

  “The man has eyes like an eagle and ears like a wildcat. Off with the boots. Once we’re on the stairs, no talking. Not even whispering. Communicate by gesture only.”

  The men struggled out of their boots, each grunting and stumbling around on one foot. Garth set a boot down beside the newel post. The spur chinged softly.

  Flagg shot him a hard look. “Shhh!”

  Garth froze, wincing. “Sorry.”

  When they were all out of their boots and had quietly levered shells into their rifle breeches or eared their shotguns’ hammers back, they mounted the stairs behind Flagg. The lead lawman moved slowly, lifting one stockinged foot at a time and pointing his cocked pistol straight up the dark stairs.

  They crabbed along the dim hall to room six. Three deputies flanking him on each side, Flagg listened at the door, then stepped back, nodding at the largest deputy, Avery “Hound-Dog” Tuttle. The deputy, who weighed nearly two thirty in his birthday suit, hefted his shotgun and stepped three feet back from the door.

  He looked at Flagg. Flagg nodded.

  Tuttle lowered his head, dug his thin white socks into the rug, and bulled ahead, throwing his right shoulder forward.

  The shoulder smashed into the door with a crunching boom.

  Wood splinters and the iron latch flew from the frame as the door burst inward, and Hound-D
og disappeared inside.

  5.

  INTERROGATION

  HOLDING his Remington straight out from his shoulder, Flagg strode into the room, turning toward the bed on his right. The other five deputies scrambled in behind him, aiming their rifles and shotgun.

  To Flagg’s left, Hound-Dog was down on one knee, hatless, aiming his greener at the bed, breathing hard.

  Flagg held his gaze on the bed’s far side. A single, slender figure lay beneath quilts. At the head of the bed, copper-colored hair shone, and two blue eyes burned through shadows at Flagg.

  The woman’s voice was taut with fury. “Who the hell are you?”

  Flagg’s eyes went to the pillow to the girl’s right, still hollowed where a head had lain. He craned his neck to rake his gaze around the room, then returned his eyes to the girl.

  “Where’s Hawk?”

  She glanced at the pillow beside her. Then her eyes, too, ran a quick sweep of the room. “Haven’t seen no one called Hawk.”

  Flagg stepped toward her, aiming his revolver at her forehead. “He was here last night. When did he leave?”

  She scuttled up in the bed, rested her back against the headboard. The manuever left her magnificent breasts bare for a second, before she raised a quilt to her neck and curled her lip at Flagg. “I don’t know anyone called Hawk. I spent the night alone. Now, I’m waiting for your apology, mister, and for you and your limp-dicked tin stars to haul your asses the hell out of my room.”

  “He’s registed downstairs.” Flagg glanced at the .45 shells littering the floor, winking in the wan light slipping around the single window shade. “And someone left you with two empty guns.”

  “I know enough about the law to know you ain’t got no right to bust into my room.” She leaned forward, blue eyes blazing, a quilt slipping halfway down her breasts. “Git out before I call the sheriff!”

  Flagg turned his head. “J.C. Galen. Franco. Check the back. If you don’t see him, hightail it to the livery barns. We might still be able to catch him.”

  When the three deputies had left, Flagg stared coolly down at the copper-haired girl, who now sat with her knees raised to her chest, holding the quilts to her neck. Her eyes were on fire, and her chest rose and fell sharply.

  “I’m going to give you one more chance, Miss Saradee Jones. When did Hawk leave, and where was he heading?”

  Saradee crinkled her eyes, jerked her head up, and sent spittle flying into Flagg’s face. The marshal recoiled slightly, ran his gloved left hand slowly across his right cheek, and glanced at the deputies flanking him on either side.

  “Hound-Dog. Bill. Press.” Flagg lunged forward, ripping the two quilts from the girl’s grip, laying her naked body bare. “Help me tie Miss Jones to the bedposts.”

  The men stared appreciatively down at Saradee snarling and writhing on the bed like a cornered lioness, clamping her raised knees together, flexing her toes, and pressing her arms to her heaving bosom.

  Big Hound-Dog Tuttle glanced at Flagg. “This ain’t exactly by the book, boss.”

  “What isn’t by the book?” Flagg said. “Restraining an obviously unfriendly witness so I can ask her a few questions?”

  Bill Houston said, “Titty up or titty down?”

  “Down,” Flagg said. “I’m thinking this girl’s pa was too soft on her. She needs a good strapping across her naked ass . . . till she remembers where Hawk’s headed.”

  “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” Press Miller chuckled.

  Flagg holstered his pistol and reached for one of the girl’s ankles. She uncoiled like a snake and struck, bounding off her heels and flying across the bed. She tucked her knees into her chest and slammed both kneecaps into Flagg’s chest.

  The marshal grunted and stumbled back. The girl clawed at his eyes with both hands as she drove him to the floor.

  “Goddamn!” Miller exclaimed, grabbing one of the girl’s flailing arms.

  Saradee screamed like a wildcat. She jerked the marshal’s Remington from his holster and thumbed the hammer back. Before she could lower the barrel toward Flagg’s head, Bill Houston grabbed her wrist.

  Pop!

  The slug thumped into the ceiling.

  Houston jerked the revolver out of her hand, then smashed the butt across her left temple. Saradee grunted and flew to the floor to Flagg’s left, where Hound-Dog Tuttle held her down with a knee between her pointed breasts.

  She stared up, wild-eyed, breathing hard, blood glistening on her temple. In the wan light, her naked body appeared swarthy as an Indian’s.

  Flagg climbed to a knee, his upper lip curled, his colorless eyes set like stones. Three clawlike scratches bled on the nub of his left cheek, while his right brow was torn, the blood dripping into the corner of his eye.

  Tuttle had a firm grip on both the girl’s wrists, his knee still firmly planted on her chest. Saradee scrunched up her eyes and winced at the pressure, barely able to breathe. She halfheartedly kicked her naked legs.

  Flagg stood and ripped the bottom sheet from the bed, stretched it out between his hands, and ripped it down the middle. “Now, where were we?”

  When they had the girl tied belly down on the bare mattress, wrists and ankles secured to the four brass posts, Flagg removed his hat, coat, and cartridge belt. He unbuckled the belt holding his pants to his lean hips.

  He glanced at the three deputies. “You men head on out and stuff your fingers in your ears while I . . . interrogate the witness.”

  Miller grabbed his rifle and smiled at Saradee lying spread-eagle, her slender back flaring out to her hips and round buttocks. “Sure you don’t want us to stay and observe the procedure, Marshal?”

  Flagg shook his head and doubled the wide leather belt, then dipped the tongue in the water bowl atop the washstand. “Search the livery barns. I’ll be along just as soon as Miss Jones decides to spare her ass and cooperate.”

  As he grabbed his shotgun from against the wall and moved toward the door, Tuttle glanced toward the bed. Saradee lay with her face to the wall, her hair a thick, coppery mass across her shoulders. She breathed sharply but said nothing.

  Tuttle grabbed the doorknob. Flagg raised the wet belt and slammed it down hard across the girl’s bottom.

  Crack!

  The girl tensed. She stopped breathing for a second. Then she sucked a deep breath, and her back resumed rising and falling sharply. A red, rectangular welt stretched across her buttocks.

  “Now, then,” Flagg said as Tuttle followed Houston and Miller into the hall and closed the door behind him. “Need I continue, Miss Jones?”

  The three deputies paused before the room’s closed door. They looked at one another expectantly, saying nothing, holding their weapons slack in their hands.

  Crack!

  The men jumped slightly.

  Houston grinned. “Damn, that’s gotta smart!”

  Tuttle said, “The book they gave me when they swore me in and gave me the badge didn’t say nothin’ about interrogatin’ prisoners this way.”

  “That’s because you weren’t after a man like Gideon Hawk.” Miller slapped Tuttle’s shoulder with the back of his left hand, and started toward the stairs. “Come on, let’s check out those livery barns.”

  Crack!

  Tuttle flinched and headed after his partners.

  He was halfway down the stairs, the desk clerk standing with one hand on the newel post, staring warily up at him, when the sound of the belt smacking bare flesh again rose like the report of a small-caliber pistol.

  The oldster hitched his glasses up his nose. “What in blue blazes is goin’ on up there?”

  “Nothin’ that concerns you,” Houston told him. “Go on and get yourself some breakfast.”

  Halfway across the lobby, Tuttle blinked when the belt lashed across the girl’s bottom. Harder than before. Upstairs, she gave a sharp grunt through clenched teeth but didn’t mutter a word.

  Later, all six deputies were waiting with their horses at the west
edge of town, when Flagg strode toward them. The sun was nearly up, a salmon wash in the sky behind him. Flagg moved stiffly, mouth set in a grim line.

  “Get anything out of the her?” Houston asked.

  Flagg shook his head. “Strangest damn girl I ever laid eyes on.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know,” Tuttle said.

  “She knew, all right.” Flagg plucked a stogie from his shirt pocket and scowled back in the direction of the hotel. “Tighter-lipped than most men I’ve interrogated . . . though I left my mark on her hide.”

  “Doesn’t matter, boss,” said Franco Villard. He threw the reins of Flagg’s steeldust to him. “We found the livery barn he stabled his horse at. Fresh prints indicate his horse has one new shoe, built up a little on the left.” He canted his head to indicate a fresh hoof print on the dew-damp trail before them.

  Flagg flushed eagerly and grabbed his saddle horn. “Well, what we waiting for?”

  Flagg tipped his hat low and spurred the steeldust into a westward gallop. Falling in behind him. Press Miller turned to Villard. “Isn’t it ‘What are we waiting for?’ ”

  Wending his way through the Arizona desert, Hawk headed back to his current hideout in the Anvil Mountains near the Mexican border.

  Three days south of Cartridge Springs, he put the grulla down a rocky ridge crest until he was no longer outlined against the sky, and stopped. He hooked a leg over his saddle horn and dug into his shirt pocket for his makings sack.

  Rolling the smoke, he peered into the broad, rocky canyon before him, an ancient Mexican village strewn about the slopes, with a shallow, glistening river threading the canyon’s bottom.

  Home sweet home.

  Hawk let his eyes range along the canyon and both ridges, habitually scouting trouble. The adobe and stone hovels wedged against both slopes were nearly indistinguishable from the boulders and tough clumps of brown and iron-gray brush.

  The smoke wafting up from several chimneys smelled of burning piñon and mesquite, roasting goat meat and chili peppers.