Blood and Bullets

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  The source of the trouble was as obvious as the bright red blood dribbling from the corner of Sterling’s mouth. It was three liquored-up cowboys, drunk enough and riled enough to feel ready to take on anybody in the saloon or the town or, hell, the whole world.

  Two of these hombres were leaning insolently against the bar, one positioned in a way that allowed him to keep an eye on Sterling, the other facing outward toward the men seated at the gaming tables and wearing a sneer that silently challenged them to try and do something if they didn’t like what was going on.

  The third troublemaker, a tall, slab-shouldered specimen with a neck like a young bull, stood in the middle of a roughly defined aisle that ran between the bar and the gaming tables. In his right hand he held a drawn revolver, in his left he gripped a sawed-off shotgun similar to the one Beartooth was brandishing. Above and slightly ahead of where the man stood, a thinning haze of powder smoke hung in the air.

  When Firestick and Beartooth first came in, the third man had been facing the stairway where Arthur lay crumpled. At the lawmen’s arrival, he cranked his head and upper torso around and raked them with an angry glare.

  “Everybody stay just like you are!” barked Firestick, sweeping his slicker open wider and dropping his right hand to hang clawlike above the .44-caliber Frontier Colt holstered on his hip. “You with the guns—drop ’em! The rest of you keep your hands where we can see ’em plain.”

  Nobody said or did anything . . . except the apparent leader of the troublemakers. His eyes locked on the marshal, and though he remained very still in his half-turned pose, he didn’t hold back from working his mouth.

  “What if I don’t feel like droppin’ my irons, law dog?”

  “Then you can die with ’em in your hands. All the same to me,” Firestick replied.

  The sneerer at the bar said, “Don’t let him bluff you, Orval. Me and Willis will back your play.”

  “That’s a real encouragin’ thing for you to say,” said Beartooth. “Encouragin’ but awful dumb. From where I stand I can cut loose with both barrels and blow you two to mincemeat before you ever clear leather. The spread of this baby might even catch a piece of Orval in the process.”

  “That’s mighty big talk,” grated Orval. “But in case you didn’t notice, yours ain’t the only scattergun here. So far I only used this one I took away from the barkeep to club ol’ baldy there when he tried to get in my way. That means I still got a pair of fully loaded barrels, and I’m thinkin’ I got a chance to spin and blast at least one of you meddlin’ bastards before you’re able to cut me down.”

  “Thinkin’ it and doin’ it are real different things,” Beartooth cautioned him. “But feel free to find out for yourself.”

  Out of the corner of his mouth, never taking his eyes off Orval and keeping the other two in his peripheral vision, Firestick said to Sterling, “What the hell’s this all about, anyway?”

  Chalky-faced, his voice trembling a little, Sterling said, “One of my girls, Miss Cleo . . . These fellas showed up lookin’ for a turn with her. But she’s already booked with a client who paid for a whole night’s worth of her services. They’re not willing to accept that.”

  Firestick’s expression soured. Miss Cleo. The strawberry blonde he’d had a hunch about.

  “You damned right we ain’t willin’ to accept that,” proclaimed Orval. “It plumb ain’t right! It’s greedy and wrong! Me and my pards rode an hour and a half through the rain for a turn with Miss Cleo, only to be told some money-flasher has claimed her for the whole stinkin’ night and we’ll have to wait until another day!”

  “There are other girls available,” Sterling wailed. “I offered them their choice—at a bargain price even, due to the inconvenience.”

  “We don’t want no other choice. We came to see Miss Cleo,” insisted the sneerer at the bar.

  “Let me do the talkin’, Sully,” Orval told him. “You and Willis just stay focused on those law dogs; don’t get distracted.”

  “Don’t make no difference who does the talkin’, or how much of it you do! I wouldn’t lay with any of you three ruffians now, even if you had gold coins pourin’ out your ears!”

  This declaration came from a new voice, a female one, speaking from the second floor. A young woman stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, leaning on the top rail of the waist-high banister. She was thirtyish, still pretty, though starting to show some wear from the hard life she led. Thick reddish-blond hair spilled around her face and the flimsy gown she wore—scooped low enough in front to reveal the upper swells of her generous breasts.

  “Cleo!” Sterling shouted. “Get back in your room. You coming out here won’t do anything to help.”

  “Don’t look like anybody else is doing a damn thing to help . . . why should I be any different?” the girl responded. “You let that ape blast the hell out of my door. What if one of those slugs had come through and killed somebody?”

  For the first time, Firestick noticed the bullet holes in the partly open door of a room overlooking the saloon from the balcony. That explained the wisps of powder smoke still hanging in the air above Orval; that and the six-gun still in his hand pretty clearly indicated he was the one who’d fired the shots that put the holes there.

  Before the marshal could say anything, Orval turned back around and glared up at Cleo, saying, “If those bullets were such a bother, why don’t you have Mr. Moneybags hisself step out here and complain to my face about ’em?”

  This gave Firestick the opening he needed. Orval’s obsession with and anger toward the girl, combined with his drunken state, caused him to cap off the series of foolish decisions he’d already made by taking his attention off the lawmen—the very thing he’d warned Sully against only a minute ago.

  Without hesitation and all in one smooth motion, Firestick drew his Colt and fired from the waist. The .44 slug expelled by a tongue of red flame smashed into the heel of Orval’s gun hand, just above where he was holding the hogleg down at his side. He yelped in surprise and pain, his bullet-stricken hand jerking involuntarily out in front of him, the gun flying from its grasp.

  Perfectly timed to Firestick’s draw, Beartooth elevated his Greener slightly and, also firing from the waist, triggered a single barrel. Smoke and flame belched from the muzzle, releasing a twelve-gauge load that went screaming over the heads of Willis and Sully, destroying a wide section of liquor bottles on a high row above the bar. Amidst the gush of booze and pulverized glass that exploded outward as a result—much of it also drenching Sterling and Frenchy—the two startled cowpokes made frantic dives to the floor, covering their heads with their hands and making no attempt to go for their guns in order to try and “back” Orval.

  Following his shot, Firestick moved quickly toward Orval. On the way, as he was passing where Sully had dropped to his hands and knees, the marshal swung a well-timed foot and slammed the heel of his moccasin boot hard to the side of the cowpoke’s head. He did this without breaking stride, leaving Sully knocked cold and flat in his wake, as Firestick continued toward Orval.

  The latter was still on his feet, hunched forward, making mewling noises as he pressed his damaged hand to his chest. But the sawed-off remained gripped in his other hand, making him still too unpredictable and dangerous for Firestick to take any chances.

  With this in mind, the marshal stepped up behind the big man and clubbed him across the back of his head with the Colt. He had to do this a second time before Orval finally dropped to his knees. As he teetered there, the sawed-off slipped from his grip and thumped to the floor. And then, at last, Orval tipped slowly forward until he dropped face-first and lay still.

  When Firestick looked around, he saw that the remaining troublemaker—the one called Willis, the only one of the three still conscious and uninjured—remained on the floor, pushing himself crablike back against the base of the bar, while Beartooth hovered over him with the business end of the Greener practically shoved up his nose.

  Over h
is shoulder, Beartooth asked casually, “This jasper here look to you like he might be thinkin’ about tryin’ to resist arrest?”

  “Could be,” Firestick said. “He’s got a kinda shifty look to him. Might be capable of about anything.”

  “For God’s sake no!” Willis gasped. “I ain’t gonna try nothing. With a shotgun jammed in my face, you think I’m loco?”

  Firestick sighed wearily. “Maybe not. But that sure as hell don’t make you smart.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Buffalo Peak, you say?”

  The question was posed by a deep, well-modulated male voice from across the room. Its tone was one of simple curiosity, but it caused Josh and Charlie to both turn with a bit of a start. In their haste to get in out of the rain and throw down some belly-warming red-eye, they’d entered Jepperd’s Ford’s nameless, dimly lighted little saloon without either of them noticing there was anyone else besides them and the barkeep present.

  They saw now that four people sat at a rough-hewn table positioned back near the far wall. They were outside the pool of pale yellow light cast by the oil lamp hanging from a ceiling beam in the middle of the room. This left them largely in shadow, and, if not for a squat candle burning in the center of their table, it would have been difficult to discern their features even once it was known they were there.

  “That’s right . . . Buffalo Peak,” Josh said in answer to the question. He couldn’t tell which of the murky faces had asked it, though one of them appeared to be a woman so he was pretty sure it wasn’t her. Letting one side of his mouth lift into an easy, lopsided grin, he added, “That’s where we’re headed, even though we didn’t reckon on needin’ a boat to make it there and then hopin’ it won’t be washed away once we do.”

  One of the faces, a gent of about fifty or so with a long, thin nose, pencil mustache, and fleshy pouches under heavy-lidded eyes, returned something akin to Josh’s grin. On him it was so brief it was more like just the hint of a smile.

  “You’ll make your destination okay,” he said, the same voice that had spoken before. “You just need a little patience is all. This rain’s bound to let up before too much longer. When it does, the relentlessly thirsty land around here will suck it up and turn dry again practically in an eyeblink. And then, by the time you get to Buffalo Peak, you’ll find it waiting for you just fine.”

  Charlie edged up beside Josh and said, “You familiar with Buffalo Peak, are you?”

  “I know of it, yes,” the man with the pencil mustache replied. “Can’t say I’ve ever been there myself, though I’ve met some folks who are familiar with the place and they’ve all spoken highly of it.”

  “Good. That’s the way we remember it, too. Hope it ain’t changed none,” said Josh.

  “Tell you what, why don’t you fellas take a load off? Bring your bottle, pull up a chair, and sit for a while. Join us,” Pencil Mustache invited. “Don’t let Ma throw too much of a scare into you. It might be hard to believe, but once you get used to her you’ll find she’s actually more human than she-wolf.”

  “That might be,” Ma said from her side of the bar, “but I still got fangs enough to tear the bark off your hide, Pierce Torrence.”

  Torrence, the man with the pencil mustache, chuckled tolerantly. “Don’t doubt it for a minute, Ma. But put your hackles down. All I’m trying to do is spread a little hospitality and maybe make you some money at the same time. After all, this is a business you’re running here, right? Serving customers and so forth?”

  “I get enough customers to suit me,” grumbled Ma.

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. But most of them are desert rats barely able to squeeze out a few cents for a splash or two of rotgut. But here”—Torrence made a gesture toward Charlie and Josh—“you have two wage earners who can actually afford, like me and my group, to pay for an assortment of services. If, that is, you take the time to let them know what’s available.”

  Ma frowned. “They got mouths and tongues, ain’t they? All they got to do is ask.”

  Torrence sighed. “What I’m trying to get at, gents,” he said, addressing Josh and Charlie again, “is that there are some amenities besides liquor that are also available in this out-of-the way little paradise. If you’re interested, that is. And at a reasonable price, I might add.”

  “Such as food and a place to put us up and our horses for the night?” asked Charlie, looking hopeful.

  “Exactly,” said Torrence. “Much like her liquor supply, Ma’s menu isn’t big on variety—usually either venison or rabbit stew—but it’s tasty and the portions are generous. There’s a barn out back for your horses, and I’m sure sleeping accommodations can be arranged. There’s a loft upstairs, but I have to warn you that’s already spoken for by me and my group.”

  Charlie turned to Ma. “How about it, ma’am? We’d like to arrange all those things.”

  Ma rolled her eyes. “Jesus, are we gonna have to go through that again? I ain’t no damn ma’am or I ain’t no grandma. I’m Ma—can you get that through your head?” Then, jutting her chin out, she added, “Yeah, you can get vittles and a place for you and your horses to spend the night. Like the man said, there’s a barn out back. If you put up your horses there and pay for hay and grain, it’d be no extra charge for you to sleep out there, too. It ain’t exactly leak free but there’s more dry spots than wet ones. If you want to pay some for stayin’ under the roof here, I can put down a couple straw mats on the floor and you can bring in your bedrolls to use with ’em.”

  Charlie and Josh exchanged glances and then, turning once more to Ma, Charlie said, “We’ll take the straw mats and some grub for ourselves, hay and grain for our horses. It sounds just fine . . . er, Ma.”

  “No need to butter me up. The prices are the same, sweet talk or no.”

  “Sure. Okay. You want us to take our horses around back while you’re dishin’ up a couple bowls of that stew? If there’s a lantern out there, we oughta be able to see well enough to—”

  “No need for that, either. Breed!” This last part the old woman turned and bellowed over her shoulder at full voice. A moment later, some curtains on the wall behind the bar parted and a man stepped through them. He was obviously an Indian of some sort—a Yaqui maybe—well over six feet tall and with shoulders wide as an ox. Reaching down to those shoulders was a mane of glossy black hair held in place by a leather headband. His face was flat, dark, expressionless.

  “These gents have got horses hitched outside,” Ma told him. “Bring in their bedrolls and saddlebags, then put the horses in the barn. Give ’em hay and grain.”

  Without acknowledgment of any sort, the Indian giant moved past Josh and Charlie—who quickly stepped back to give him plenty of room—and glided silently out the door into the rainy night.

  From the table across the room, Torrence said matter-of-factly, “That was Breed. What Ma can’t take care of around here with her bark or her six-gun . . . he does.”

  Ignoring him, Ma made a shooing-away gesture to Josh and Charlie, saying, “Go on and sit down if you’re gonna. I’ll be bringin’ your stew out to you in a minute. When Breed fetches in your gear, tell him where you want it put. And mind you if it leaves puddles all over, that’s what you’ll be sleepin’ in.”

  After Ma disappeared through the curtain, Josh and Charlie picked up their bottle and glasses and went over to Torrence’s table where those already seated shifted around to make room for them.

  “Well. Now that we’ve made it this far,” said Torrence once the cowpokes were settled in their own chairs, “I guess further introductions are in order. We all know that you’re Charlie and Josh from Oklahoma on your way to Buffalo Peak, and you know I’m Pierce Torrence.

  “Here on my right, please make the acquaintance of Miss Leticia Beauregard. Don’t let her beauty fool you, she’s almost as mean and ornery as Ma Speckler. To my left is Black Hills Buckner. He doesn’t say more than a dozen or so words a day, not to anybody, so don’t take his silence personally. On th
e other side of Black Hills is Romo Perlison. He has no shyness when it comes to talking, but he saves his best and smoothest lines for the ladies; his name might have more appropriately been Rom-e-o.”

  As Torrence introduced each person, they made eye contact and gave nods of acknowledgment, not much more. No handshakes were offered.

  Leticia Beauregard, as Torrence indicated, was quite attractive. She had an almost perfectly oval face set with wide, dark eyes and full, sensuous lips, all surrounded by a thick mass of curly black hair. What showed of her figure was trim and full busted, the latter proudly displayed by a low-cut, cleavage-baring blouse. The shadowy, flickering candlelight added a kind of mysterious, smoldering quality to her appearance.

  Black Hills Buckner was a muscular slab, massive through the shoulders and chest, with huge, thick-fingered hands. His eyes were a shade too close together and had a cold, vacant quality to them that gave an immediate impression of no emotion ever showing there. Romo Perlison was of average size, solid looking, with a wide, expressive mouth surrounded by black whiskers that contrasted with a close-cropped cap of dirty blond hair.

  “We appreciate you folks bein’ so friendly, invitin’ us over and all,” said Josh once the introductions were complete. “What with me and Charlie havin’ nobody but each other to yap at for the past few weeks, it’ll be right nice to visit with some others for a change.”

  “That’s right,” Charlie agreed. “Hadn’t been for you fillin’ us in on what all was available here we might have headed back out into the rain again without ever knowin’. I got a hunch Ma likely never would have said.” He paused to scrunch up his face distastefully. “Especially after she took a plumb dislike to me right off the bat.”

  Torrence chuckled. “Nah, don’t take it personal. Can’t you tell? It’s her nature; she treats everybody like that.”

  “That’s right,” affirmed Romo. “She’s got a rotten disposition toward everything and everybody. Comes from not havin’ a man in her life is my opinion. Women get that way when they ain’t got a man around to take care of ’em proper. Why do you think all the nuns you ever see look so somber and gloomy faced all the time?”