Preacher's Frenzy
Page 29
A little earlier that morning the leader of the group, Myron Petro, had proposed a job he thought they should do.
“It’ll be like takin’ money from a baby,” Myron said. The men to whom he was pitching his idea were his brother Frank, Muley Dobbs, Ethan Reese, Wally Peach, and Leo Beajuex. All of the men were experienced outlaws except for Beajuex, who was the youngest of the lot.
“I don’t know how you ever got the idea that robbin’ a bank in Big Rock is goin’ to be easy,” Wally Peach said. “There ain’t no way it’s goin’ to be easy on account of Monte Carson is the sheriff there, ’n he sure ain’t easy. Hell, he’s one of the toughest sheriffs there is anywhere.”
Myron grinned. “Sheriff Carson ain’t goin’ to be no problem at all ’cause, case you don’t know nothin’ about it, his wife just died. That means he’s so all broke up about it that he can’t hardly do his job no more.”
“I ain’t never seen this Sheriff Carson feller but I’ve sure heard of ’im,” Muley Dobbs said. “’N what I’ve heard is the same thing what Wally just said. Sheriff Carson’s s’posed to be one tough son of a bitch. So, how is it that you know his wife died?”
“I heard talk of it yesterday when I was in Red Cliff.”
“Yeah, well, I wish they was some way we could be sure,” Muley said.
“All right, s’pose you ’n Beajuex go into town ’n have a look around?” Myron suggested. “You could maybe scout the bank whilst you was there, too.”
“Nah, don’t send the kid,” Frank said. “He wouldn’t have no idea what the hell he would be lookin’ for. I’ll go.”
“All right, tomorrow you ’n Muley go into Big Rock, have a look around town, then come back ’n tell me what you’ve found out. We’ll hit the bank day after tomorrow.”
* * *
That night, as the six men bedded down around the dying campfire that had cooked their supper, they talked excitedly about the money they would soon have.
Leo Beajuex listened, but didn’t join the conversation. He had never done anything like this before and he was very apprehensive about it. He wasn’t going to run out on them—these men were the closest thing to a family he had. He had met them six months earlier, when he was supporting himself as a cowboy on the Bar S Ranch down in Bexar County, Texas.
Actually, saying that he was a cowboy would be a considerable overstatement of his real position. Ron Stacy, owner of the Bar S was a tyrannical boss, especially to someone who was a menial laborer, as Leo was. Whereas the cowboys got thirty dollars a month and found, Leo was paid fifteen dollars. He got the worst jobs on the ranch, and Stacy wasn’t averse to physical abuse.
It all came to a head one day when Stacy took a leather strap to Leo because he hadn’t cleaned a stall. As it turned out, he had cleaned it, the mess was from a horse that had just been moved into the stall.
Deciding that he had had enough, it was Leo’s plan to steal a couple of cows and sell them for just enough money to help him get away. However, while he was in the act of cutting them out, he saw the Petro brothers and the other three men doing the same thing but on a larger scale.
“Boy, if you got ’ny idea of tellin’ anyone what we’re a-doin’ here, we’ll shoot you dead,” Myron Petro warned.
“Why would I want to tell anyone?” Leo replied. “I’d rather join you.”
They rustled forty-nine cows and sold them for twenty-five dollars apiece. That gave them a little over two hundred dollars each, which, for Leo, was more than a year’s wages.
There had been a few other, small jobs. They got a hundred and fifty dollars from a stagecoach holdup, and eight hundred dollars from some stolen mules.
So far, at least since Leo had been with them, there had been no shooting. But when the subject came up this afternoon, Frank said that if they had to, they would kill anyone in the bank, as well as anyone on the street who tried to stop them.
Although Leo had come close, he had never killed anyone, and he hoped that nobody would be killed as a result of the job they were planning now.
As the campfire burned down, a little bubble of gas, trapped in one of the burning pieces of wood, made a loud pop and emitted a little flurry of sparks. Leo watched the golden specks as they rode the rising shaft of heated air into the night sky, there to join with the wide spread of stars.
He wondered what would happen in two more days.
Big Rock
The next day Frank Petro and Muley Dobbs rode into town. Even at an easy pace, the ride into town took less than an hour.
“Lookee there,” Frank said, pointing to some of the shops and businesses they were passing. “All them buildings has black ribbons on ’em, so that means for sure that somebody died.”
“Yeah, but it don’t mean for sure that it was the sheriff’s wife what died, without we hear someone say it,” Muley said. “’N the best place to hear it said is in a saloon, just like this one.”
They were just passing the saloon as Muley pointed it out.
“Longmont’s,” Frank said, reading the sign. “I don’t know, it looks a bit fancy for the likes of us.”
“The fancier it is, the easier it is to find out information. Besides I’m a mite thirsty, aren’t you?”
“A beer would be good,” Frank agreed.”
“No, I don’t know, Muley, I’ve seen you play poker before. More times than not, somethin’ gets your dander up, then you go off half-cocked ’n wind up in trouble. We most especial don’t want no trouble today, that’s for damn sure.”
“You don’t worry none ’bout me playin’ poker. That’s a good place to find things out. You just stand up there at the bar, drink your beer, ’n keep your eyes ’n ears open,” Muley said. “If you hear somethin’ that don’t sound right, let me know.”
The two men stepped inside, then looked around.
“Whooee, I sure ain’t never seen no saloon this fancy before,” Frank said.
The long bar that ran down the left side of the saloon was more than just gleaming mahogany. The front of the bar was intricately carved to show a bas-relief of cowboys herding cattle. The hanging overhead lights weren’t wagon wheels and coal oil lanterns as was often the case, but cut crystal chandeliers.
“There’s a card game,” Muley said, pointing to a table where a game was in progress.
“Muley, be careful. Don’t go gettin’ yourself into no trouble,” Frank cautioned.
With a nod as his only response, Muley walked over to the table. “You fellers willin’ to take on a fifth player?”
“No need for five players, you can have my seat,” one of the players said. “I need to be gettin’ along anyhow.”
“The name is Muley,” the big scruffy-looking man said as he took the chair just vacated.
* * *
A short while after Frank and Muley rode into Big Rock, Smoke and Sally came into town. Sally could ride as well as any man, but they came in a buckboard because Sally wanted to do some shopping and it would be easier to take the purchases back in a buckboard than on horseback. They drove in from the west, following Sugarloaf Road until they passed the depot and Western Union, at which place Sugarloaf Road turned into Front Street. As had Frank and Muley before them, Smoke and Sally noticed that many of the buildings on Front Street had a black ribbon on the door.
“That’s nice of them to honor Monte in such a way,” Sally said.
“You aren’t surprised, are you, Sally? Monte is a popular sheriff and Ina Claire was well liked,” Smoke said.
“Well loved is a better description.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Smoke said as he parked the buckboard in front of the Big Rock Mercantile.
“I’ll be in Longmont’s when you’re ready to go back home,” Smoke said as he tied off the team.
“Really? And here I thought I might find you in the library,” Sally teased.
“Sally, has anyone ever told you that sarcasm doesn’t become you?” Smoke asked with a little chuckle.
&nb
sp; “You mean besides my mother and father and all four of my grandparents? Oh yes, you have as well.”
Sally kissed Smoke on the cheek, then started toward the store, as Smoke crossed the street to get to the saloon.
* * *
Owner and proprietor of the saloon was Louis Longmont, a Frenchman from New Orleans, who was quick to point out that he was truly French and not Cajun. The difference, he explained to those who questioned him, was that his parents moved to Louisiana directly from France, and not from Acadia.
Longmont’s was one of two saloons in Big Rock, the other saloon being the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon.
The Brown Dirt Cowboy tended to cater more to cowboys and workingmen than it did to professional men, storekeepers, and ranch owners. The Brown Dirt Cowboy provided not only alcoholic beverages and a limited menu, but also bar girls who did more than just provide friendly conversational company for the drinking man.
Longmont’s, on the other hand, was more like a club in which ladies were not only allowed, they were made to feel welcome, and assured there would be no stigma to their frequenting the establishment. It also had a menu that could compete with the menu offered by Delmonico’s Restaurant, which was just down the street from Longmont’s.
Like the other business establishments along Front Street, Longmont’s had a black ribbon on the door.
Stepping into the saloon Smoke stood just inside the door for a moment to peruse the patrons.
There were seven men standing at the bar, only one of whom he had never seen before. Three of the tables had customers, and two of the girls were standing near two of the tables, having a smiling conversation with the drinkers. Smoke knew both Becky and Julie and he exchanged a nod with them. He also knew the seated drinkers. There was a poker game going on at the third table, and here Smoke recognized three of the men. Two were cowboys from a nearby ranch, and the third was Mike Kennedy. He didn’t know who the fourth man was, but there was something about him that gave Smoke a sense of unease.
In addition to those three tables, there was a fourth table. This was Louis Longmont’s special table, so designated because nobody but Louis ever sat there unless they were personally invited by Louis.
The pianist was playing, not one of the typical saloon ballads, but a piece by the Polish composer Frédéric Chopin. This kind of music would never be allowed in most other saloons, but it had become a signature for Longmont’s.
Tim Murchison, owner of Murchison’s Leather Goods, was sitting at the table with Louis, and Smoke, without being invited because Louis had once told him that his invitation was permanent, joined them.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the bestselling series Smoke Jensen, the Mountain Man, Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Flintlock, and Will Tanner, Deputy U.S. Marshal, and the stand-alone thrillers The Doomsday Bunker, Tyranny, and Black Friday.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.
The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J. A. worked hard—and learned.
“Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytelling. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’”
Visit the website at www.williamjohnstone.net.