Blood and Bullets

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Kate turned at the clump of Firestick’s boot heels entering the lobby. “Elwood! I’m so glad you got here.” She was the only one around town who called him by his given name.

  “I take it things are still hangin’ fire?”

  “So far. I don’t know for how much longer.”

  Out through the window, the street looked quiet, void of any activity. Word had apparently spread that there was trouble in the air.

  “So what’s goin’ on exactly?” Firestick asked. “Gabe said something about four hardcases showin’ up lookin’ for trouble.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “Where’s Moosejaw?”

  “Down the street a ways, in front of Daisy’s blacksmith shop where he can keep an eye on things.”

  “And where are the hardcases?”

  “Across the street, in the Silver Spur. The only place they’ve been since they hit town.”

  “So what’s so troublesome about ’em? They threatenin’ somebody or something?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Kate. “They came looking for somebody—that newest girl Earl Sterling hired over at the Lone Star Palace.”

  “The one called Cleo?”

  “That would be the one,” Kate said.

  “The dirty little putain!” hissed Frenchy. “I tried to warn Earl against bringing in those kind of girls. I told him it would lead to nothing but trouble, but he wouldn’t listen. In the beginning, I have to admit, it wasn’t too bad. Then she showed up—conniving, backstabbing, manipulating Cleo. In no time at all she had all the other girls hating her and everybody but a pathetically smitten Earl seeing what she truly was. It was disgusting to watch—not to mention personally humiliating.”

  Firestick frowned. “I can appreciate all that, and I’m sorry for you, Frenchy. But what does it have to do with—”

  Kate cut him off, explaining, “Frenchy was in the Silver Spur when those hardcases came in. She was there to check out the stage that Coswick is building for her because she’s going to start performing there, in case you haven’t heard. Anyway, as soon as those rowdies showed up they started asking for Cleo. They were sent by a man named Kilbourn, they claim, who had an exclusive contract with Cleo back in El Paso. According to them, she broke it and ran out on him. They’re here either to take Cleo back or collect an undisclosed amount of money she supposedly owes this Kilbourn.”

  “So why are they at the Spur when Cleo is at the Palace?”

  Kate shrugged. “I guess they came to town not knowing exactly which saloon they’d find her in. They picked the wrong one to start with but then decided they liked it there and would stick with it.”

  “I slipped out the back as soon as I could, but not before I heard someone tell them where Cleo could actually be found,” said Frenchy. “Once they knew that, they sent Art Farrelly, the Spur bartender, over to the Palace with their demands. Either Cleo or the money.”

  “Let me guess. Cleo don’t want to go with ’em and either don’t have or refuses to pay the money. And Sterling is backing her.”

  “That’s where it stands,” said Kate. “The men from Kilbourn have given until six o’clock for their demands to be met one way or the other. If not, they’re going to the Palace to take what they came for.”

  Firestick glanced at the clock on the wall behind the registration desk. It was ten minutes of six.

  “Has Moosejaw confronted the hardcases in any way?”

  Kate shook her head. “No. So far it’s only words. I think he’s waiting to see if they actually try something.”

  Firestick nodded as if in approval.

  At that moment, Thomas Rivers, Kate’s right-hand man around the hotel, came into the lobby from the adjoining dining room. Marilu, his plump, round-faced wife, who was head cook and overseer of housekeeping, was right behind him. In his hands, Thomas was gripping the Greener shotgun he normally kept behind the bar in the hotel’s small barroom. Thomas was a big man, big enough so that the Greener looked almost like a toy wrapped in his thick fingers. The expression on his coffee-colored face was intense.

  “You be needin’ some backup with that bunch across the way, Marshal, I’m standin’ here ready,” he announced.

  “My man ain’t no shirker when there’s trouble needs facin’,” said Marilu proudly.

  “Everybody knows that,” Firestick replied, addressing them both. “And there’s nobody I’d rather have sidin’ me than Big Thomas. But grateful as I am for the offer, this is a job that’s best for me and my deputies to handle. Moosejaw is right down the street and Beartooth is comin’ in hard on my heels.”

  “That’s still only three to their four,” Thomas pointed out.

  Firestick grinned. “I can’t help it the odds are stacked so bad against ’em. Besides, the hot air those loud mouths are blowin’ is likely to cool down and dry up once they see three determined star-packers standin’ in their way.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Frenchy said. “They looked to me like a very rough bunch.”

  “It’s still a job for me and my deputies to handle,” said Firestick firmly. He tossed another glance at the clock. “Now, I need to slip down to the blacksmith shop in order to let Moosejaw know I’m here. Beartooth will be showin’ up any minute. Thomas, the best way you can help is to stay right here with that shotgun in case the trouble shows any sign of spillin’ out of the street and comin’ this way.”

  “It does, I’ll make sure it gets stopped real short,” Thomas said.

  * * *

  Beartooth came pounding up just as Firestick exited the rear of the hotel. “I saw your horse and came over here instead of the jail,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”

  Firestick gave him a quick rundown, ending with, “I’m on my way now to let Moosejaw know we’re here. He’s keeping an eye on things from Daisy’s blacksmith shop, ready to step out if and when those jaspers make their move. How about you go down to the alley that runs beside Moorehouse’s barbershop and take up a position there. After I tell Moosejaw we’re here, I’ll settle in somewhere between you two. Then, when Kilbourn’s men come out of the Spur, we’ll step out and show we’re ready for ’em.”

  Beartooth nodded. “Sounds good. If they stay in a bunch, we’ll have a three-way line of fire on ’em. They’ll have to be mighty nervy—or stupid—to try anything in the face of that.”

  Firestick grunted. “Trouble is, they just might be. I naturally want to avoid a shoot-out if we can, but if they don’t give us a choice, then at least the street looks clear of citizens.”

  “You make the call. But if you open the ball,” Beartooth said, yanking his Winchester from the saddle scabbard of his horse, “I’ll be ready.”

  A handful of minutes later, Firestick reached Daisy’s blacksmith shop and again came in through the rear. He found Moosejaw and Daisy at the front of the barnlike structure, past the forge area, standing to one side of an open sliding door and peering out at the street. He announced himself from a safe distance back.

  Once Moosejaw’s face had snapped around, a smile quickly curved his mouth. “Can’t say I’m sorry to see you,” he said. “I didn’t know if you were comin’ back to town or not.”

  Firestick grinned, too. “Kate sent word you had a spot of trouble shapin’ up here. Didn’t want you to hog all the fun for yourself.”

  “He wouldn’t’ve been on his own,” Daisy said, holding up the long-barreled shotgun she was gripping in her fists. “I was ready to back his play.”

  Firestick rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, is everybody in this town shotgun happy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. Just stand at ease with that thing, okay? Me and Beartooth are here now to back Moosejaw. Let us handle it; it’s what we get paid for.”

  “Beartooth’s here, too?” Moosejaw asked.

  “He’s down the street, in the alley by Moorehouse’s,” Firestick explained. “Now that you know we’re here, my idea is for me to take up a p
osition in between you two. When those hardcases come out of the Spur, we’ll show ourselves and let ’em know we mean business if they don’t call it off and hightail out of town. If they’re hell-bent on tryin’ us, we’ll have no choice but to show ’em what a purely bad idea that is.”

  “I like it,” Moosejaw was quick to say. “You’ll be in the center, so you take the lead on lettin’ ’em know how things stand. Me and Beartooth will be ready to jump in when needed.”

  “Done. It’s gotta be six by now, so I’d better hurry up and find me a spot.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Cutting once again behind the buildings that lined this side of Trail Street, Firestick worked his way through a gap between a bakery and a boot repair shop too narrow to be called an alley. There was a large rain barrel taking up most of the opening at the street end, providing good cover for him to settle in back of. This placed him almost directly across from the front door of the Silver Spur Saloon on the opposite side of the empty street. The sinking sun was casting long shadows from some of the building peaks out into the dusty, deeply rutted strip that separated them.

  Firestick barely had time to drop into a half-crouch behind the barrel before the Spur’s batwings slapped open and four men emerged. They were indeed a hard-looking lot—scruffy, unshaven, narrow-eyed, loaded down with guns and shell belts bristling with heavy caliber cartridges.

  Striding half a step ahead of the others was a tall, rangy specimen wearing a cream-colored hat. Crowded in behind him were two galoots of average height, one decked out in a tobacco-colored bowler, the other wearing a flat-crowned Stetson. Both carried rifles. Bringing up the rear was a potbellied Mexican sporting a brace of pistols worn for the cross draw.

  Exiting the saloon, the four turned immediately to their left—Firestick’s right—and started in the direction of the Lone Star Palace on the same side of the street.

  That was all Firestick needed to see. He straightened up, edged around the barrel, and stepped out onto the boardwalk on his side.

  “Hold it right there, gents,” he said in a level voice, loud enough to carry across the street. In his peripheral vision, he saw Moosejaw ease out onto the edge of the street in front of the blacksmith shop. Down to his left, Beartooth also moved into view.

  The four men stopped. The leader locked eyes with Firestick, his expression showing nothing. Slowly, his gaze dropped to the badge on Firestick’s chest. Then, just as slowly, he looked first one way, then the other to take note of the two deputies. Behind him, the other three appeared poised, wary. The knuckles of the two riflemen whitened as they gripped their weapons tighter. The Mexican shifted his body so that he was facing Firestick and both of his holstered pistols were clear of the man closest to him.

  “You got some kind of business with us, Marshal?” asked the leader.

  “Believe I do,” said Firestick. “More to the point, your intentions are my business.”

  “Not sure I follow you. We’re just four long riders passin’ through your town. We had ourselves a few drinks at this here saloon, and now we’re on our way down to the other one where we understand they got sportin’ women. Before we ride on, we reckoned we might have ourselves a mattress dance or two . . . providin’ the gals ain’t so homely they change our minds, that is. And seein’s how you allow sportin’ gals in your town to begin with, such intentions can’t hardly be against the law, can they?”

  “Wouldn’t be . . . if you was tellin’ the truth.”

  The leader’s mouth pulled tight. “You callin’ me a liar?”

  “You’re tellin’ me a whole different story than you been spoutin’ to everybody else since you hit town. What would you call it?”

  The width of the dusty street separating the two men filled with tension.

  At length, the leader said, “She ain’t nothing but a dirty little whore, Marshal. And a sneakin’, cheatin’ one at that. She ain’t worth puttin’ yourself to no trouble over.”

  “Strange advice comin’ from you,” said Firestick, “seein’s how you and your boys have already gone to a lot of trouble over her—ridin’ all this way from El Paso the way you have.”

  The leader shrugged. “Times are hard. It’s a payin’job for us to bring her back.”

  “Me and my men have payin’ jobs, too. Part of what’s expected for that pay is to protect our citizens from bein’ drug away against their will.”

  “Are you kiddin’ me? A citizen? I repeat, she ain’t nothing but a whore,” the leader sneered. “She broke a contract and cost the fella who hired us a serious amount of money. She needs to be held accountable for that.”

  “You got a copy of the contract?”

  “What!”

  “You heard me. The contract she’s supposed to have broke—you bring a copy of it?”

  “Hell no, we didn’t bring no contract! We look to you like paper-shufflin’ lawyers or some such?”

  Firestick’s eyes turned flinty. “What you look like to me,” he said, “are four hombres who rode a long way for nothing. If you’re smart, you’d best ride back out of town and forget what you came here for.”

  The tension in the air grew heavier.

  “That ain’t gonna happen,” the leader said in a flat tone. “We ain’t the kind to take on a job and not see it through to the end.”

  “You’re real close to the end,” Firestick told him. “You can get the rest of the way there by turnin’ around like I gave you the chance . . . or you can find it right here.”

  Firestick tensed as he said the words, about ninety-nine percent sure the hardcases weren’t going to ride away. The only thing that surprised him was the fact it wasn’t the leader who made the next move—it was the potbellied Mexican with the twin Colts.

  He drew both six-guns and was mighty quick about it, extending them at arm’s length and triggering both simultaneously. Luckily for Firestick, his aim wasn’t nearly as impressive as his flashy draw. Bullets ripped the air past the marshal’s shoulder and thumped into the rain barrel.

  Firestick went into a diving roll to his right, clawing for his own gun as he did so. He ended up on one knee behind an awning post in front of the boot repair shop. A long wooden sign in the shape of a boot was nailed to the post, providing some narrow yet welcome cover. From behind this, the marshal began returning fire.

  By then, everybody was blazing away. Sizzling lead and rolling clouds of powder smoke filled the street.

  Down the street, in front of Moorehouse’s barbershop, Beartooth was levering and firing his Winchester in rapid succession, taking aim at the Mexican who’d opened up on Firestick. Two of his bullets found their target, spinning the man partway around and slamming him back against the front of the Silver Spur. A Colt flew from the Mexican’s left hand. He turned his body again, staggering, sliding along the front of the building, trying to lunge to safety through the batwings. He was waving his right hand wildly, continuing to trigger random shots. More bullets from Beartooth chewed the outer wall behind the Mexican’s head. Just when it looked like the Mexican might make it through the door still on his feet, Firestick planted a .44 slug just above his left ear, blowing off his sombrero and part of his skull. The Mexican finally made it through the batwings—as a carcass that hit and skidded loosely on the sawdust-sprinkled floor.

  In front of the blacksmith shop, crouched behind a high-walled wheelbarrow, Moosejaw traded shots with the two hardcase riflemen. The one in the derby was peppering his position heavily, levering and shooting back in the same rapid-fire manner as Beartooth was down the street. The other rifleman, the one in the Stetson, had taken a couple methodical shots but seemed far more interested in trying to squirm low and find some cover behind a watering trough in front of the boardwalk. He didn’t get low enough before a .45 caliber slug from Moosejaw’s Schofield drilled into his throat, just below the Adam’s apple, and flipped him onto his back. A spout of blood from his destroyed throat arced up and splattered against the side of the trough he’d been trying
to get behind.

  Seeing his pard go down so enraged the derby-hatted hombre that he tried to take advantage of Moosejaw’s momentary lapse in follow-up fire—while he was reloading—by rushing out into the street and aiming an even more intense volley at the wheelbarrow. It was as if the damn fool forgot there were still two more lawmen engaged in the fight. Firestick reminded him by shooting him in the thigh and knocking him to the dirt.

  Before the marshal could finish the rifleman he’d spilled in the middle of the street, the leader of the hardcases, who’d been surprisingly slow in drawing his pistol and joining the fray, diverted Firestick’s attention by sending a pair of bullets hammering into the boot sign he was still behind. The sign rattled and spit slivers, but was thick enough to prevent the slugs from chewing through.

  Leaning down lower, reaching under the heel of the wooden boot, Firestick triggered a return shot at the hardcase leader. His bullet scored truer, slamming dead center into the tall man’s chest. The leader’s head jerked back and he went up on his toes. In the same instant, a Winchester round from down the street, courtesy of Beartooth, whistled in and hit less than an inch from where Firestick’s shot had struck. The leader flung out his arms and was driven backward through the Spur’s plate glass window.

  Out in the street, the remaining wounded rifleman had made it up on his good knee. He’d lost the derby hat but was still clutching his Winchester. He was lifting it again as Moosejaw, his Schofield now reloaded, rose up behind the wheelbarrow and drew an unwavering bead on the man. The big deputy tried to give him a chance, saying, “Drop it. You don’t have a prayer.” But the rifleman wasn’t having any. He continued deliberately raising his weapon until it reached a point where Moosejaw had no choice. He squeezed the trigger and put a bullet in the middle of the stubborn fool’s forehead.

  * * *

  Everything went suddenly and totally silent. For over half a minute, there was no sound or movement. Even the three lawmen stood motionless.