Blood and Bullets

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Firestick puckered his chin thoughtfully. “You may have a point. Gotta admit I never looked at it that way. All I know is that the talk I’ve heard goin’ around has it how Arthur has been blowin’ about the way he’s gonna thrash Orval just as soon as he can get his hands on him.”

  “Bah. You know how unreliable talk that gets spread like that can be. It’s more likely Arthur made a simple comment, in anger, about how he’d like to get his hands on Orval at some point to square things, and it got blown out of proportion. That’s a far cry from him planning something right away while Orval’s laid up with only one wing.” Sam spread his hands. “But, like I said, that’s just my opinion.”

  From where he’d wandered over to gaze out the front window, Moosejaw said, “Looks like we’ll get the chance to test your opinion pretty soon. Clint Harvey and a couple of his men are comin’ down the street now, headed this way.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Firestick rose up from the seat he’d just gotten comfortable in. “Good enough. I’d just as soon get this over with so Harvey can take his men back to the ranch and keep ’em there for a while. If Arthur is on the prod, that’ll give him time to cool down.”

  “Also give Orval a chance to get his hand back in shape in case a confrontation between the two of them has to take place somewhere down the road,” Sam pointed out.

  “Let’s take it one step at a time,” said Firestick. “Sam, you might as well go get those three out of their cell. Moosejaw, how about you step outside and keep an eye peeled in case Arthur does decide to show up and try to cause trouble?”

  Both men moved as instructed. Moosejaw left the door open on his way out and a moment later Clint Harvey strode through. The men who’d ridden up with him stayed outside.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Harvey,” Firestick said.

  “What’s so good about it?” Harvey groused in return. He was a short, squat man, built along the lines of a tree stump, with shaggy eyebrows, a dour expression, and slightly overlong arms that ended in surprisingly delicate-looking hands.

  “Didn’t say it was a good mornin’. Just stated it, friendly-like, as a time of day,” Firestick replied.

  Harvey scowled. “Yeah. Well, I guess there’s no arguing that much.”

  There came a faint clanging of steel on steel from the other side of the thick door that led back to the cell block.

  “I take it you’re getting ready to release my men?” Harvey asked.

  Firestick nodded. “That’s right. There’s only the matter of coverin’ the cost of damages caused by them and they’ll be all yours.”

  “I need to square that with the saloon owner?”

  “I’ve got his bill right here. I can give you a receipt and then see to it he gets the money. Tell the truth, I’d just as soon you got your men—leastways those three—on out of town without any saloon stops.”

  Harvey grunted. “I suppose that’s understandable.” He dug a wallet out of his vest pocket. “If you show me that bill, I’ll take care of it.”

  Firestick took a sheet of paper from his desk—Earl Sterling’s estimate for the damage done to his saloon—and handed it to the rancher. The amount hadn’t seemed unreasonable to the marshal and apparently not to Harvey, either, since he didn’t hesitate to withdraw enough to cover it. Firestick took the money, scrawled “paid” and his initials at the bottom of the paper, and handed it back to Harvey.

  As he folded the receipt and slipped it in his pocket along with the wallet, the rancher said, “And there’s no fines or anything to add to that?”

  Firestick shook his head. “Not this time. Works in their favor that those three ain’t made a habit of causin’ trouble in the past. Long as they steer clear for a while, let things calm down, and then—should go without sayin’—don’t repeat any foolish behavior in the future, we can call it even.”

  “Sounds fair enough,” Harvey allowed. Then, as if just remembering, he added, “I understand one of my men was wounded?”

  “That’s right. I had to shoot Orval Retlock in his gun hand.”

  “How bad?”

  “Frank Moorehouse fixed it best he could. Won’t ever be good as new again but, given some time, Frank figures Orval should get back sixty, maybe seventy percent use.”

  “But Moorehouse is no real doctor.”

  “True. But he’s all we got. If Orval was to travel to Presidio or somewhere and visit one with full bona fides, maybe that doc could do some better fixin’ and give him a better outlook.” Firestick hesitated. “Ain’t my decision and I’d never tell the kid to his face, but I think it’d be a waste of time. I think he’s gonna have to face losin’ partial use of his hand.”

  “Still, you can see where it would be a mighty hard thing for a strapping young fella like him to accept.”

  “Coulda been worse. I coulda shot and killed him and been well within my rights to do so,” Firestick pointed out bluntly.

  Before the subject could be discussed further, the door leading back to the cell block opened and three men came through it—Tom Willis and Sully Hutchins walking ahead of jailer Sam Duvall. The two just-released prisoners looked subdued and embarrassed as they cast furtive glances toward Clint Harvey.

  “We’re mighty sorry about this, boss,” mumbled Willis.

  “And mighty grateful you came to fetch us out,” added Sully.

  “I back the men who ride for me . . . within reason,” said Harvey. “Where’s Retlock?”

  Willis and Sully suddenly looked even more ill at ease. It was Sam who answered, saying, “He won’t come out.”

  “What? What do you mean he won’t come out?” Harvey demanded.

  Sam shrugged indifferently. “Just what I said . . . He’s refusing to leave the cell. Says a one-armed man ain’t no good to you or himself or anybody else. Says he might as well just stay behind bars and rot.”

  Harvey scowled. “That’s ridiculous. He still has some use of his hand, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s what we been tryin’ to tell him, boss,” said Sully. “Right now, yeah, it’s all swole up and powerful sore. But when the bandages come off and he’s able to start workin’ it some, the doc says he’ll still be able to do quite a bit of stuff with it.”

  “But he ain’t wantin’ to hear any of that,” Willis added glumly. “He keeps sayin’ a man without his right hand ain’t no man at all, he’s worthless.”

  “Maybe he’d listen to you, boss,” suggested Sully. “Maybe you can talk enough sense into him to get him to at least try.”

  When Harvey looked his way, Firestick said, “Go ahead. Give it a try. He can’t stay in there at the town’s expense forever.”

  They trudged back into the cell block. Sam led the way. Harvey, Willis, and Sully followed, with Firestick bringing up the rear.

  Orval sat on the edge of a cot in one of the two cells. Its door was wide open. He sat with his head hung down, elbows resting on knees. His right hand was heavily bandaged.

  Harvey stepped into the cell. “Orval? What’s this nonsense about you not wanting to come out of there?”

  Orval slowly raised his head. “What’s the use, boss? I come out, I ain’t gonna be no good to nobody.” He held up his damaged hand. “This thing is gonna keep me locked away from what I can do for the rest of my life. Might as well just leave all of me locked away.”

  “That’s awful shortsighted, seems to me,” Harvey told him. “Every indication is that you’ll still be able to use that hand to a certain degree. More than half, the doc says. Sure, I know it’s bound to be frustrating and awkward and it’s a hell of a lot easier for somebody else to say, but if you try hard and stick with it there’ll be plenty you can do. A strong, healthy fella like you—maybe even more than expected. But you’ll never know if you quit and don’t even give it a try.”

  Orval’s gaze drifted past the rancher and locked on Firestick standing outside the cell. His bottom lip curled. “Damn you, Marshal. Why didn’t you just go ahead and put that bullet in the back
of my head and spare me all of this?”

  “Come on, boy. You surely don’t mean that,” Harvey said.

  Orval turned his glare on him. “Don’t I? How the hell do you know what I mean?”

  Some color crept up Harvey’s neck and over his cheeks. He looked like he was teetering between sympathy and anger. “It’s hard to believe anyone would put the same value on their life as their hand. That’s all I was trying to say.”

  Orval’s eyes continued to bore into him. “You’re big on throwin’ that word ‘try’ around. You sayin’ you’ll give me a try? You’ll still hire me on, even as a cripple?”

  “I came here to bail you out, didn’t I? Yes, I have every intention of you returning to work at the High Point. You’ll need more time to heal, I understand, and even after that there’s bound to be some limitations on what you’ll be able to do. But I’ll still expect a full day’s work out of you and have every reason to expect I’ll get it.”

  “Come on, Orval. You can’t get much fairer than that,” urged Sully.

  “Get on out of there and join us back at the ranch,” Willis said.

  Orval’s gaze swept over all of them, lingering hotly on Firestick for an extra beat. Then, heaving a great sigh, he pushed himself up off the cot. “What the hell. Reckon I got nothing to lose,” he muttered to no one in particular.

  They shuffled back out into the office area. For a moment, as they edged around one end of the marshal’s desk, everyone was bunched closely together. In that instant, using his size and strength to full advantage and moving with speed born of desperation, Orval lashed out with his right elbow and sent everyone around him staggering a step backward. At the same time, his left hand streaked down and snatched Firestick’s Colt out of its holster. Sweeping the gun in a short arc, his off hand holding it rather awkwardly but still effective enough at such short range, he leveled it on the marshal’s stomach and yelled, “Now you pay, you cripple-makin’ son of a bitch!”

  A gun roared shatteringly within the confines of the room.

  But it wasn’t Firestick’s Colt. It came from the Schofield .45 fisted by Moosejaw, who was coming back in from outside and was just in time to spot the tormented Orval’s attempt at revenge. The heavy slug hurled by the Schofield smashed into the side of Orval’s neck, exiting in a spray of gore and slamming the big man hard against the back wall of the office. He sank slowly to the floor, leaving a scarlet streak as he slid down. Though he never got off a shot, Firestick’s Colt stayed in the grip of his lifeless hand.

  CHAPTER 6

  “We’re makin’ better time than we figured. I’m expectin’ now we oughta make it in by tomorrow afternoon or so. Sound about right to you?”

  “Yeah, I’d say so. Long as we don’t get hit with no more hard rain.”

  Charlie gazed out under the front edge of the cave within which they sat, sweeping his gaze across the star-sprinkled sky, and said, “No sign of anything brewin’ up there as far as I can see.”

  “True enough. Long as it stays that way,” Josh allowed. “But you remember what ol’ Ma said back there at Jep-perd’s Ford—how she reckoned the spring rains weren’t done yet and more would be showin’ up before long.”

  “Yeah, and I also remember pretty damn well how Ma had a kind of sour outlook on just about everything,” Charlie said, his own expression taking on a touch of sourness at the memory. “Plus, we’ve come quite a spell from where she’s familiar with the weather patterns. Ain’t to say it ain’t gonna rain no more, neither—not here nor there, either one. All I’m claimin’ is that it don’t look like nothing is due around here anywhere soon.”

  “Okay, okay. I can go along with that. I can see the same clear, starry sky as you, can’t I?” Josh frowned. “But the dang rain ain’t hardly the biggest thing on my mind. Whether it holds off or don’t, we’re still gonna be makin’ it to Buffalo Peak before long. What we’re gonna do when we get there? That’s the part I been ponderin’ on more than anything.”

  “What’s to ponder? We’re gonna find ourselves a couple right nice gals, get hitched, and settle down. That’s what we decided months ago, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, that part ain’t changed,” Josh agreed as he fed a couple of fresh sticks into the crackling campfire that separated the two of them. “But how we go about reachin’ it, that’s the thing.”

  “On account of those ideas Pierce Torrence tried to sell us on, you mean?”

  “Well, yeah. He made some awful interestin’ points. I won’t say he sold me completely, but he sure set me to thinkin’. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t still be chewin’ it over in my head all this time later. You sayin’ he didn’t make no impression on you at all?”

  Charlie reached out and snagged a final piece of bacon that lay in the frying pan. “No, I can’t claim that. Like you, I been grindin’ on it a fair amount myself.” He held up the bacon. “You want half of this?”

  “No. Go ahead, kill it.”

  Charlie bit off some of the bacon. As he chewed, he said, “At first I thought Torrence was pokin’ some fun at our expense. You know, takin’ us for a couple rubes, stringin’ us on to see how gullible we were. But, the more he talked, danged if what he was sayin’ didn’t start to make more sense.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the same as it was for me,” Josh said, his head bobbing. “And then, when that Leticia gal—and, oh my, wasn’t she an eyeful and a half?—started to chime in with Torrence, she made it sound all the more like something worth considerin’.”

  “Swore that’s the way all women, down deep, want a man—a real man—to act. Grab ’em, haul ’em off somewhere to show ’em some hard lovin’ while convincin’ ’em you’re the hombre who’ll always be able to take care of ’em, and then claim ’em for your lawfully wedded.”

  Charlie popped the last of the bacon in his mouth, licking the grease off his fingertips as he chewed and continued to talk. “Ain’t no denyin’ that sounds a whole lot quicker than attendin’ ice cream socials and square dances and whatnot, tryin’ to cull some filly out of the herd while at the same time there’s other stallions all around pawin’ at the ground, tryin’ to get her attention, too.”

  Josh’s head was bobbing some more. “That’s right. And then, if you finally do find a filly who takes an interest in your scent, next you got to meet her ma and pa and go through that whole sashay of convincin’ ’em you’ll be a good provider who truly has deep feelings for their daughter and you ain’t just some rascal lookin’ to crowd her into a horse stall somewhere for a tumble in the straw . . . Whew! It’s like a body has to climb over one hill after another before you ever get to the one that has gettin’ married finally waitin’ at the top.”

  “Sorta makes you see why fellas like Romo are so committed to stayin’ single, don’t it?”

  “Maybe. But that ain’t us.” Josh frowned. “Say, you ain’t crawfishin’ on me, are you? We made up our minds that we’ve reached the time for settlin’ down and gettin’ married. Right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Take it easy, I ain’t nohow crawfishin’.” Charlie finished chewing and swallowed down the last of the bacon.

  * * *

  Using a sawed-off section of tree trunk for a stool, Pierce Torrence sat alone on the front porch of Ma Speckler’s nameless saloon. The evening still carried the warmth of the day, though cooling quickly. The only sign of any kind of cloud in the sky was the thin curl of smoke rising up from Torrence’s cigarette.

  As he took a hard drag, the quirly’s tip glowing bright red in the shadows cast under the narrow porch overhang, the screen door opened behind his shoulder and Leticia Beauregard emerged from inside. She had a knit shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

  “I wondered where you’d gotten to,” she said.

  “Just sitting out here thinking. Kinda enjoying looking up at the sky and not seeing rain pouring out of it for a change.”

  Leticia held out her hand and he passed her his cigarette. She took a long drag, handed it back as sh
e exhaled a plume out into the darkness. “Jesus, we’ve got to go somewhere where you can get some decent smoking tobacco,” she said.

  “Ma says it’s the best she carries.”

  “Maybe so. But that doesn’t make it good. Lord, you could crumble up crusty old buffalo chips and roll something better than that.”

  “You speaking from experience?”

  “Some things you just know.” Leticia stuck out her tongue and made a face. “I’m glad I only take a few puffs a day. And until we get some place where you can buy something better, I think I’ll hold off having even that much.”

  “You might be in for a considerable wait. I haven’t made up my mind yet where we’re headed next.”

  Leticia picked up an empty wooden bucket, turned it over, and sat down on it. She leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, and the low-cut front of her blouse sagged open, nearly baring her ample breasts.

  Torrence grinned with one side of his mouth. “If Romo should happen to wander out here, you’d better sit up straighter. If he saw you like that, he’d be apt to walk off the edge of the porch and break his fool neck.”

  “If he was going to injure himself from being distracted by ogling me,” Leticia said offhandedly, “he would have done it a long time ago. I swear, he’s got eyes that can look sideways, like a horse, even when he’s facing forward. And, believe me, he never stops looking.”

  Torrence emitted a low chuckle. “Yeah, when he’s not on the job, he’s got pretty much a one-track mind. When it’s time, though, he’s all business and I know I can count on him.”

  Leticia regarded him for a moment, then said, “So when is it going to be time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When is it going to be time for business? For a job?”

  “I just got done telling you, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “But you’re closer than you pretend. I can always tell. That’s what you’re doing out here now—running things through your mind, considering, maybe even planning a little . . . I’m just curious what you might be leaning toward.”