“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Big Sally asked.
“Church murdered the boy’s mama,” Rance said. “Used to work here, Alice Woodson.”
“Did You kill his mama, Church?” Big Sally said.
“She was a no-good, money-stealin’ whore,” Church said to Big Sally.
Tommy cocked the hammer on the Colt.
Travers turned around slowly. “You a back-shooter boy?” he said. “That what you taught him, Allison?”
Tommy looked at B.W. and Rance in the mirror. “Ya’ll go away, this is my fight,” he said.
“You don’t want to do this,” Rance said. “Give me the gun.”
“I’m goin’ to kill that weasel.”
“Put the gun down, boy, ‘fore it’s too late,” Travers said.
Church hadn’t moved, was staring at them in the mirror.
“That’s what it’ll be if’n he don’t drop that gun,” Church said to the mirror and picked up his whiskey glass, took a slow swallow and sat it gently back down on the bar.
“What do you care? She was a whore,” Travers said and two men got up from their chairs at a table and walked over beside Travers, both big and ugly. They looked like they could chew nails and shit horseshoes.
“Get out of here, boy,” Big Sally said. “He’ll kill you.” Church nodded yes, looking at Tommy in the mirror.
Big Sally reached down behind the bar and raised a shotgun up over the bar and pointed it at Church.
“You shoot that boy, you’re dead too,” Big Sally said. “Get out of my saloon and don’t ever come back, all of you.”
In one swift motion, Church wheeled, drew his left pearl-handled pistol and put a bullet between Big Sally’s eyes before he knew what was happening. Sally fell backwards, pulling the triggers of the shotgun in a death grip, blowing a hole in the ceiling as he fell. Ricocheting buckshot and debris crashed against the big long mirror, smashing it to pieces. Tommy fired, hitting Church in his left shoulder and he dropped his pistol.
Travers crouched down in front of the bar with his hands over his head. The two men beside him reached for their guns and B.W. turned the shotgun loose on them and the buckshot went through them like a screen door, blowing the windows of the saloon out behind them. Church went for his right pistol. Rance put two holes in his left shirt pocket, about an inch apart, with his double action Colt before Church could clear leather. Church stared at Rance in disbelief, belched up his whiskey and slid down the bar to the floor, the longhorn steers on the side of his boots in full view.
The sheriff came running in, guns blazing, bullets buzzing by B.W.‘s head like bumblebees. B.W. hurled the tomahawk across the room at the sheriff, planting it deep into his skull and blood squirted up like a fountain as he fell to his knees, the pistol spinning off his limp fingers and hitting the floor the same time he did.
Travers tossed his gun out on the floor and yelled, “I’m unarmed! Don’t shoot!” and stood up next to the two disemboweled men on the floor with his hands over his head.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rance saw someone move and turned, ready to fire. A middle-aged man wearing a floppy straw hat, overalls and clodhopper boots was standing against the wall, his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot,” he said. “Got nothing to do with this, couldn’t get out.”
B.W. reloaded the shotgun and Rance walked up beside Tommy. “Give me the gun,” he said and Tommy handed him the Colt.
“The Yankees goin’ to hang you for this,” Travers said.
“You’re the one needs hangin’ you chicken-livered bastard.” B.W. sat the shotgun on the bar and poured himself a shot of whiskey, picked up the glass, looked at it and sat it back down hard on the bar. “Enough,” he said.
Travers yelled something incoherent, reached inside his coat and pulled a two-barrel derringer and fired at B.W., hitting him in the head and side. B.W. staggered to the floor, the Colt falling out of his belt as he hit the floor.
Tommy reached down and picked up B.W.’s Colt and pointed it at Travers.
“No,” B.W. said. He jerked the Colt out of Tommy’s hand and shot Travers four times before he could fall.
“There goes the railroad,” B.W. said and passed out.
Rance kneeled down beside B.W. and checked his breathing. “You got a doctor in this town?” Rance asked the man against the wall.
“Yes,” he said, keeping his hands in the air.
“Go get him,” Rance said. “Hurry!”
The man bolted for the door and out of the saloon. The people that were still in the bar were hugging the floor. Rance could see people standing outside the saloon, looking in as the swinging doors flew open.
“Is he gonna die?” Tommy asked.
“Don’t know,” Rance said. “Got to stop the bleedin.’”
The little whore came out from behind the piano and over to B.W. “Let me see,” she said. “Use to take care of two brothers after battles.” She stuck out a leg and ripped a piece of her petticoat off, folded it, picked up the bottle of whiskey on the bar, soaked the cloth in it and squatted down beside B.W. She placed the cloth in the wound and pressed her hands on it.
Less than five minutes later, a little gray-haired man carrying a doctor’s bag came in with the sodbuster and saw B.W. on the floor with the little whore pressing the cloth on the wound.
“What the hell?” the doctor asked, looking around at all the dead men.
“Think he’s the only one alive,” Rance said.
“There’s a bullet in his side,” she said and stood up.
The doctor nodded. “Name’s Meeks,” he said and started working on B.W. “Looks like it missed the kidneys but it’s goin’ to have to come out. The head wound’s not serious, more like a punch that just knocked him out.”
“Thought so,” she said, looking down at B.W.
“What’s your name, lady?” Rance asked.
“They call me Little Sugar, real name’s Maggie Pruitt. Heard what you said about the boy’s mama. ‘Fore my time but nothing Church did surprised me. Did some bad things to me, too, said he’d kill me if I told anyone.”
“Thanks for your help, Maggie,” Rance said.
“You’re welcome. Thanks for killin’ that bastard.” Rance didn’t say anything and just nodded he understood what she meant.
“Gotta go pack, no work here anymore,” she said, walked by Church, spit on him, climbed the stairs to a room and went in.
“The bleeding is under control thanks to Little Sugar. Let’s get him to my office,” Doc Meeks said.
Rance looked at the man standing against the wall. “You just volunteered,” Rance said to the sodbuster. “Think I can hold his legs with my arms, you get his upper body. Tommy, bring his hat and guns.”
“What about the tomahawk?” Tommy asked.
Rance looked at the tomahawk in the sheriff’s head. “In a good place where it is.”
Most of the people in town had emptied out into the street and were watching as Rance and the sodbuster carried B.W. across the street to the doctor’s office.
“Thanks,” Rance said to the sodbuster as they laid B.W. on the bed.
“Wait in the other room,” Doc Meeks said, rushing them out and closing the door.
“Thanks for what ya did back there,” the sodbuster said. “I’m glad ya’ll killed them no-goods.”
“Better go ‘fore the Yankees show up,” Rance said and the man left.
“Tommy, I think it’s okay to go to the livery,” Rance said. “Go tell them what happened.”
“I don’t want to leave B.W.”
“I know, but I’m sure they heard the gunfire and need to know we’re still alive. Tell them to stay there for now. I’ll keep a close watch on him till you get back.”
“Alright, I’ll be right back,” Tommy said.
“It’s okay, go ahead,” Rance said and Tommy took off.
Doc Meeks came out of the back room wiping his hands on a towel. “Got the bullet out,” he said. “
He’s out right now. Needs rest. Don’t think it did any permanent damage, though. If you got a place to take him I think you should. Gonna be more trouble.”
The front door swung open and a tall stout-looking man dressed in a Union officer’s uniform with captain bars on his collar and a nervous look on his face was standing in the doorway, his saber in one hand and a Navy Colt in the other. Two soldiers were standing behind him with carbines.
“Drop your guns, mister,” the captain said. Rance dropped the Colt from his belt and unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall to the floor.
Two soldiers walked in from the back room. “There’s a wounded Indian on a bed back there, Captain Welch. I left Private Ferguson to watch him.”
“You know anything bout this, doc?” Welch asked.
“No, got there after it was all over. Been treatin’ the Indian.”
“Looks like a war zone over there, bodies everywhere,” Welch said. “You a Yank or a Reb?” he asked, looking at Rance’s arm.
“Neither now, captain. The war’s over.”
“That Indian part of your band?” Welch said.
“He’s my friend, yeah,” Rance said.
“He killed Travers, didn’t he?”
“He did, after Travers pulled a gun on him.”
“What’s your name?” Welch asked.
“Rance Allison.”
The doctor’s office door came open again and a broad-shouldered man with intense brown eyes and a neatly trimmed black beard walked in with silver leafs on the collar of his shirt. All the soldiers snapped to attention and saluted.
He returned the salute and stared at Rance, rubbed his chin. “Wasn’t you at West Point? Class of fifty-eight?”
“Sure was,” Rance said. “Thought I remembered you. William Smith, right? We had some Calvary tactics classes together.”
Colonel Smith nodded. “Rance Allison, been a while.”
“Was a different world back then,” Rance said.
“That it was,” Smith said, “Heard you switched sides.”
“I resigned my commission. Union troops murdered my wife and baby, my Pa and ma for no reason.”
“There’s a wounded Indian in the back room that helped him kill those men,” Welch said.
“On your West Point word of honor, Rance, who started it?” Smith asked.
“They did,” Rance said. “Church shot the bartender and Travers’ men drew down on us and the sheriff came in firing at us.”
“One of the witnesses said a boy was in there holding a gun on Church,” Welch said.
“That right?” Smith said to Rance.
“Yes sir,” Rance said. “Travers is the boy’s pa, had Church murder his mama. Would have killed the boy if he got to him to keep him from getting a share of his railroad.”
“And you know that for a fact,” Colonel Smith said.
“I do,” Rance said.
“Don’t cotton to a man that would kill a woman and a kid,” Smith said.
“She was a whore,” Welch said.
“Doesn’t matter. You got anyone that says different from what he said, Captain Welch?”
“No sir.”
“Make me out a report to that effect and I’ll sign it, send it to the adjutant,” Smith said.
“What!?” Welch said. “They should be tried for murder. They killed a lawman and the only southerner we could trust to help run this town.”
“Captain, I’m in command here. You’re free to go, Rance. Sorry ‘bout your family,” Colonel Smith said. “Might be best if you move on as soon as you can.”
“We’ll do that,” Rance said.
Colonel Smith nodded. “Captain, I want that report by ten in the morning.”
“Yes sir.”
Colonel Smith turned to the door, a soldier opened it, and he walked out.
“Can we have our guns back now?” Rance asked.
“This is not the last of this,” Welch said. “Give him his weapons, sergeant.”
Rance took his guns and the soldiers left.
“Okay if I check on B.W., doc?”
“Sure,” he said.
Rance walked into the back room and placed a hand on B.W.’s shoulder and he opened his eyes.
“That you, Rance?”
“First time you ever called me by my given name.”
“Figured it was time. A man worth ridin’ with should be called by his name.”
“How you feelin?’”
“Like I got a hoe handle stuck up my ass.”
“Not too far off. You been shot in the abdomen. Doc got the bullet out.”
“I still got my pecker?”
“I’ll let you check that,” Rance said.
“My own damn fault, should have been watchin’ that sonofabitch,” B.W. said.
“That was a good thing you did, not letting Tommy kill him.”
“He needed killin’ but Tommy didn’t need it on his conscience,” B.W. said. “Don’t think he’s goin’ to get any of that railroad since I killed his pa.”
“No matter. He didn’t want it anyway, was us pushing it.”
“Tommy gonna be okay?” B.W. asked.
“Worried ‘bout you. Sent him to the livery stable to tell ‘em we’re still alive. Turns out the commanding officer here is an old friend of mine. We’re free to go but that won’t stop anybody from killin’ us if they get the chance. Got to go get a wagon to get you out of here.”
“Tell that Fannie girl I’m still kickin.’”
“I’ll do that,” Rance said. “Doc, keep an eye on him.”
31
When Rance walked in the livery stable there were smiles all around. Julie ran to him and threw her arms around him. “You’re alive!” she said.
“I am. B.W.’s wounded but I think he’s goin’ to be alright,” Rance said.
“Where is he?” Julie asked.
“At the doctor’s office. Needs some transportation, can’t sit a horse.”
“I’ll get a wagon,” Riley said and headed for the corral.
Fannie walked up holding Mitchell. “B.W. goin’ to make it?” she asked.
“Think so,” Rance said. “He said to tell you he’s still kickin.’”
Fannie smiled and Rance held out his arms for Mitchell, but he turned away and hugged Fannie.
“He’ll take to you,” Julie said. “Take a little time, is all.”
“Where‘d you get the name Mitchell?” Rance asked.
“Just liked it,” Julie said. “Wasn’t sure you would want him named after you.”
Rance held out his arms again for Mitchell and he grabbed Fannie around the neck.
Riley came back into the livery stable with two horses pulling a flatbed wagon and jumped down off the seat. “This oughta do,” he said.
“I’ll go get him.” Rance stepped on the wagon wheel axle and sat down on the seat.
“I’m goin’ too, “Tommy said and climbed up on the wagon beside Rance.
“Giddy up,” Rance said. They rode by Big Sally’s Saloon and Rance stopped the wagon in front of Doctor Meek’s office, tied the horses to the hitching post and he and Tommy jumped down from the wagon and went in.
“How’s he doin?’” Rance asked.
“Better than I expected. Main thing is to make sure he doesn’t start bleeding again. Normally, I wouldn’t recommend he be moved yet, except them vultures may come back. I’ll help you put him in the wagon.”
Riley met Rance at the door and held the horses while Rance and Tommy got off the wagon and everyone checked on B.W. in the wagon.
“Was worried bout you,” Tommy said.
“We all were,” Julie said.
“Thanks. Sorry ‘bout your pa,” B.W. said. “Didn’t have a choice.”
“He had it comin,’” Tommy said.
“Maybe so, but that don’t make me feel any better ‘bout it,” B.W. said.
“You did what you had to do,” Rance said. “I think its okay for you to have a nip, want me to g
et the whiskey?”
“No, don’t have that cravin’ like I did,” B.W. said. “Chief Drowning Bear liked whiskey so much he drank himself into a trance when he was sixty years old and everyone thought he was dead. He woke up the next day and announced he had been to the spirit world and talked to friends and god and was sent back from the dead inspired to quit drinking. From that day on he forbade anyone else in the tribe to drink for the rest of his life. I had that same dream when I was lying on that bed in the doctor’s office. Scared the hell out of me.”
“Want somethin to eat?” Fannie asked.
“Got any of those biscuits?” B.W. said.
“No, but I can make some.”
“I sure do love those biscuits,” B.W. said. “Don’t think I want the whiskey this time. The cravin’s gone.”
“I’ll bring you some biscuits when they’re ready,” Fannie said.
“That’ll be good, you can join me.”
“I’ll do that,” Fannie said, smiled and walked away.
Tommy sat down in the back of the wagon beside B.W. “Wanted to tell you I been thinkin’ about goin’ to West Point, if I can learn enough. The major said he’ll help me till I get in. Don’t think I would make a very good lawyer.”
“Me neither,” B.W. said.
“Then it’s alright with you?” Tommy said looking at B.W.
“Hell yeah, you might be president one of these days.”
“What are you goin’ to do, B.W.?” Tommy said.
“Don’t know, what ‘bout you, Rance?”
“Julie got a letter from Jack’s wife some time back, used to own the eatery. She said there’s a valley in California that looks like Shenandoah with land free for the takin.’ Thinkin’ about goin’ there and startin’ a new life. Why don’t you come with us?”
Fannie walked up with the biscuits and sat the plate down beside B.W. He looked up at Fannie and smiled. “Fannie girl, would you marry me and go to California?”
“What?” she said, looking sideways at B.W. “I barely know you.”
The Last Good Day Page 18
