Bob and Vern walked in, shaking off some of the rain from their slickers and hats.
Bullock straightened up on his stool. “Well, hallelujah. I knew if I kept the lights burning long enough on this beast of a night, there was the chance my tenacity would be rewarded and my fortune would be achieved. And, lo and behold, here you are. The marshal of our fair city—and, just incidentally, bare-knuckle champeen of the territory—honoring us with a second visit of the day.”
“Even if I couldn’t see what a slow night you’re having,” Bob said dryly, “I could tell it by the line of bull crap you’ve obviously got stored up because nobody’s been around to unload it on.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Bullock responded with mock severity. “Here at Bullock’s we are renowned not for peddling bull crap but for dispensing as fine an assortment of alcoholic beverages as can be found in all of Wyoming Territory.”
“He’s right,” agreed Maudie. “We don’t peddle bull crap here . . . but under this roof, a lot of it sure gets shoveled for free.”
Bullock frowned as if he’d just heard some startling news. “I never noticed. Must happen when I’m not around.”
Maudie rolled her eyes. “See what I mean?”
Bob hiked a leg and settled onto one of the stools. Gesturing between the two, he said, “Vern, this is Maudie Sartain, one of the prettiest sights you’ll find in all of Rattlesnake Wells. Maudie, this is Vern Macy, one of my new deputies.”
Maudie smiled and extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Vern. I was introduced to your brother earlier when Fred brought him around.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am.” Vern shook her hand, even bending a bit at the waist in a sort of gentlemanly bow.
Bob couldn’t help smiling inwardly upon noting how much trouble it was for the young man to keep from gawking openly at Maudie’s curvaceous figure and the generous amount of cleavage she made a habit of proudly displaying. In all but the crudest of louts who made no attempt to hide it, this struggle to look Maudie in the eye when carrying on a conversation with her was a common challenge for the men around town. Even Bob was no exception.
“Looks to me like you’ve picked two fine additions to help keep law and order in our town, Bob,” said Maudie. “I feel safer already.”
“Vern and his brother have quickly proved their mettle on a couple different occasions,” Bob acknowledged. “I’ve no doubt they’re gonna work out just fine.”
“I’d say you’re not wasting any time putting ’em to a pretty harsh test,” Bullock said. “I admire your dedication to duty when it comes to patrolling our streets and all. On a night like this? Who in their right mind would be out looking to do mischief in this kind of weather?”
Bob shrugged. “You never know. Some enterprising troublemaker with a shrewd mind might be expecting us to figure it just that way and decide it would be exactly the right time to pull something.”
Bullock scowled. “You mean somebody like Sanders’s gang—or what’s left of ’em, anyway?”
“Could be. I can’t shake the hunch that they’re gonna try to bust Arlo out of jail, Mike,” said Bob. “Not only do I not see a little nasty weather stopping them when they’re ready to make their move, they could even look at it as giving them an advantage as far as masking their movement and helping in their getaway.”
“Okay. Yeah, I guess I can see how that might make a certain amount of sense from their perspective.”
“I’ll tell you what makes sense to me,” spoke up Maudie. “That would be offering you two gents a drink of something to help ward off the chill and damp that you’ve been slogging through outside. And, since we’re doing such a rip-roaring, high-profit level of business in here tonight, I bet I can even convince the boss to let me serve it on the house. What do you say?”
Bullock made a by-all-means gesture with his hands.
“Normally,” Bob said, “I’d remind you we’re on duty and so have to turn you down. But you know what? Since it is an exceptionally nasty night out there and we’re only a couple blocks from finishing our rounds and calling it a day—barring a visit from the Sanders gang, that is—I’m going to bend the rules and take you up on that offer. A shot of bourbon, if you please, and a short beer to chase it.” Turning to his deputy, he added, “Vern? How about you?”
Vern suddenly looked uncomfortable and actually blushed a bit. “I appreciate the offer, Marshal, but I . . . uh . . . I’ve never really acquired a taste for spirits. Me nor Peter neither one. If you don’t mind, I’ll just pass.”
“I don’t mind. Nobody does,” Bob assured him. “To tell the truth, I don’t imbibe a whole lot myself and it’s probably a smarter path to walk clear of the who-hit-John, anyway.”
Bullock cleared his throat. “It would be a sorry day for me and my business if too many folks felt that way. I ain’t one to be forcing it on anybody, neither.”
Maudie tapped the cup on the bar top from which she’d been sipping. “How about, as an alternative, some hot tea? That would still give you a touch of warmth to counter the cold night.”
“Tea would be great, if it’s not too much trouble,” Vern said.
“Not at all. I’ll top mine off, too, while I’m at it.”
While Maudie went to get the tea, Bob threw down his shot of redeye and followed it with a pull of the beer. Like he’d told Vern, he didn’t do a lot of drinking but he did enjoy a snort now and then. On a night like tonight, the heat of the whiskey flooding through him felt particularly good. While on the rounds, even in his good, heavy slicker that Consuela made sure he had, the cold and damp had bit deeper into him than he cared to admit, right down to the bone. Must be getting old, he thought sourly to himself.
Maudie returned with two cups of tea. As she handed one to Vern, she said, “I didn’t think to ask if you wanted anything in it. Some sugar or milk?”
“No, just like this is fine.”
After taking a sip from her own cup, Maudie said to Bob, “By the way, I have some welcome and surprising news regarding the little Chinese gal you rescued.”
“I could use some good news, not to mention that I’m sure Mee-Kee could too. What is it?”
“It appears we’ve found a place for her to stay and even a way, a good way, for her to earn her keep. You want to tell him, Mike?”
“Angus McTeague stopped in this afternoon,” Bullock said. “He came by mainly because he’d heard about the fisticuffs show you and Fred put on with those roughnecks from Cheyenne and he wanted to get the details. While I was filling him in, Kim happened through with Mee-Kee in tow. Somehow McTeague hadn’t heard the story of how you’d found her in the wreckage and what she’d been through with those vermin who had her before then. When I filled him in on that, too, you should have seen his reaction.”
“He melted like a stick of butter in the hot sun,” Maudie interjected. “I never would have thought it of the old rascal.”
“Can’t say I would have, either,” Bullock agreed. “He came up with the offer to take Mee-Kee in as a housekeeper and maybe cook. He’s building that nice new house just off Gold Avenue, you know. It’s nearly finished and almost ready to move into. With him making frequent trips up to his mining camps, he won’t be there sometimes. He said he’d been thinking about hiring on a housekeeper, anyway—you know, to be present and look after things when he wasn’t around. He went ahead and made the pitch to Mee-Kee . . . with the proviso that Kim would work with the two of them for a while, as a sort of interpreter, until they had enough lingo worked out between ’em to get by on their own. Said he’d pay Kim for her time, too. And when Kim explained it all to Mee-Kee, she was willing to give it a try.”
“I’ll be darned. Like you’ve both said, I never would have pictured McTeague as being so bighearted,” said Bob.
“Just goes to show, I guess.”
Bob abruptly scowled. “You don’t think there’s any chance his intentions are—”
“Don’t even say it,” Bull
ock cut him off. “No, I don’t think that. Not for a minute.”
“If you’d seen them together, Bob, you’d understand,” said Maudie. “The way he looked at her . . . I agree with Mike. McTeague might be a hard-nosed so-and-so in a lot of other ways, but where that frail, abused little girl is concerned, I believe with all my heart that his intentions are strictly charitable and honorable.”
Bob didn’t need to hear any more and gave a nod. “That’s good enough for me, then.”
Chapter 31
Through the rain-beaded second-floor window of his hotel room, Vernon Brock watched Marshal Hatfield and one of his new young deputies emerge from Bullock’s and head down the street toward the jail. Although the storm had blown out about a third of the pole-mounted lamps that lined Front Street—in spite of the glass housings that were supposed to protect the flame of each—the frequent pops of brilliant lightning made tracking the pair’s progress easy enough.
Brock produced a pocket watch and checked the time, also via the flickering illumination of the lightning. Eleven o’clock. Not much longer. He held the watch open for several more ticks of the second hand. His gaze had shifted from the time face to the image of a pretty, middle-aged woman whose likeness had been carefully cut out and fitted into the concave area on the inside of the watch cover. Not much longer now, Adelia . . . Not much longer until at last your tormentor will be held to account.
Brock snapped the watch shut suddenly and dropped it back into his pocket. He stood motionless after lowering his arm, continuing to glare out the window, his expression as stern and dark as the roiling sky. Finally, he pulled the shade down and turned away from the window. Feeling his way in the dark, he moved to the edge of the bed and turned up the glowing wick of the nightstand lamp. A soft glow filled the room, revealing the form of Libby Sanders lying on her stomach, snoring lightly, one bare arm dangling over the side of the bed.
Brock reached down and shook the arm. When he got no response, he shook it harder. “Libby. Come on. It’s time to wake up.”
She pulled the arm away, muttering a very unladylike curse.
Brock slammed his knee against the edge of the mattress, jolting the whole bed. “Damn it. Wake up! I told you not to guzzle so much of that stinkin’ rotgut tequila. Now snap out of it!”
Libby’s eyes fluttered open. She scowled up at the form hovering over her, and the faded beauty of her features, under a spilling tangle of hair, looked puffy and faded, far from her bygone best days. “I’m awake, can’t you see? You don’t have to be so damn ornery about it.”
She reached out and her hand groped atop the nightstand. She pulled it back empty and her scowl deepened.
“The bottle’s gone,” Brock told her. “You drained it, remember? You don’t need any more now, anyway.”
“I do, too!” Libby insisted. “I need a pick-me-up.”
“You’ll pick yourself up on your own and do it damned quick or I’ll drag you out of that bed by the hair of your head,” Brock snarled. “Now get a move on!”
“Okay, okay.” Libby flung the covers back and swung her feet to the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, holding her head in her hands. “Jesus, I need a drink. Just one. I need it bad.”
“No, you don’t. What you need is to clear your head, not fog it even more. Get up, splash some water on your face, then get dressed and start getting ready to carry out the plan we put together—the one that’s going to gain us both what we so badly want.”
“What time is it?” Libby wanted to know.
“Past eleven. Going on midnight.”
“Jesus, it sounds like it’s still storming like hell outside.”
Brock’s face was a mask of grim determination. “It is. But that’s not going to stop us. In fact, when we get out on the street and set things in motion, it might actually work to our benefit.”
* * *
A few minutes short of midnight, Reese Modello gave the signal, and he and the four others spurred their horses out of the rocky crevice and set on a course for Rattlesnake Wells. Sheets of rain washed over them, lightning raked the sky, and rolling booms of thunder made the ground vibrate under the horses’ pounding hooves.
The hilly, broken ground of the Shirley Mountains front range gave way to flatter, more open terrain as they closed on the town. Nearing the northern tip of Gold Avenue, they swung wide to the west and turned southward again, moving parallel down the length of Gold and past the point of where it converged with Front Street in Old Town. After only a short way, they cut back in toward town, eventually merging onto the western end of First Street.
They slowed their horses to a walk as they began moving past darkened residential homes. Ahead, they could see a few flickering street lamps on Front Street, but it was the steady flashes of lightning that continued to illuminate their way.
The residences ended and they came up on the back side of the hulking Starbuck Territorial Bank building.
* * *
Half a block down from the bank, Brock and Libby had emerged from the rear of their hotel and were huddled under a narrow strip of overhang on the edge of the alley. Brock was clad in a heavy rain slicker. Libby wore only her blue dress, no hat, no shawl.
“I’m freezing to death,” she lamented. “This is a piss-poor deal for me, while you’re wrapped up nice and snug in that big ol’ coat.”
“It’s just for a little while,” Brock said, aiming to console her. “You looking bedraggled and desperate will help you play your part. As soon as we get clear, I’ve got warm, dry clothes and a bottle of tequila packed in a saddlebag for you.”
“You’d better.”
“Okay. You can stay here under this overhang for a couple minutes longer. Give me time to get across the street and move up to that bell. Don’t wait too long, though, before you make your way closer to the jail. When I start ringing that warning bell and the marshal and his boys come pouring out of the jail, you wait until they’ve gone past you and then go on the rest of the way. Hatfield will be sure to leave one deputy behind. You’ve got to take care of him and secure the keys to Arlo’s cell while I’m slipping down behind buildings on the other side of the street to get our horses and bring them out. You got all that?”
“Yes, yes. We’ve gone through it a hunnert times.”
Abruptly, Brock reached out and tore away one shoulder of her dress, leaving the sleeve to dangle loosely.
“Damn you, what’d you do that for?” Libby wailed. “That was my good dress!”
“That will help sell your story to the deputy you have to get past at the jail,” Brock explained. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a new dress—a better one.”
“You’re damned right you will!”
* * *
Behind the bank, what was left of the Sanders gang crowded close, holding a sheet of canvas to keep the rain off the bundle of dynamite Modello had pulled gently from under his coat and was snugging up close to the building. A short fuse, only slightly more than a foot, trailed out from the sticks of explosives.
“That thing ain’t gonna give you much time after you light it,” Ace Greer said.
“It’ll be enough. Can’t afford to make it any longer for fear of the rain dousing it. Hand me that lid we’re gonna put over it.”
Greer held out a flat piece of board and a broken brick.
Wordlessly, Modello took them and arranged them over the length of fuse—propping the board on the brick so that it made a protective covering. “Now go ahead and lay that piece of canvas down on the dynamite and the board. Leave this end open enough for me to light the fuse.”
Once his instructions had been followed, Modello rocked back on his heels. “Okay, boys. It’s as ready as it’s gonna get. All it needs is for me to snap a match to it. Three Ponies, Ainsley, Salt River—get in your positions. Soon as you’re in place, I’ll set this baby off.”
For the two older gents it was only a matter of seconds before they’d taken up their stations—Ainsley ou
t on the edge of First Street, covering that side and rear of the bank; Salt River in the alley, covering that side and the front. For Three Ponies to climb the uneven outcrops of brick that ran up the corner of the building took maybe a minute longer.
Looking up, blinking against the rain, Greer watched the half-breed’s legs swing out and then disappear as he made it onto the roof. Greer reached down and tapped a squatting Modello on the shoulder “Okay. All in place.”
Just as Modello struck the match he was holding ready, cupping one hand over the flame that crackled to life, a bell started clanging loudly, cutting sharply even through the howl of the storm.
“What the hell’s that?” Greer hissed.
“It’s that damn warning bell. The same one they started ringing the last time we hit this place.”
“But how could they already know we’re here again this time? We haven’t even—”
“It don’t matter,” Modello cut him off. “That bell ain’t gonna tell ’em a damn thing this explosion won’t. Let ’em come meet the hail of lead they’re gonna find waiting for ’em!”
So saying, Modello touched the match flame to the tip of the fuse, and it flared to life with a puff of smoke and a spatter of sparks.
Chapter 32
In addition to being forted up together in anticipation of the Sanders gang trying something, Bob had decided that he and his deputies also needed to set up a watch of sorts. After all, it wouldn’t do a hell of a lot of good to be bunched together and allegedly ready for trouble if they were all caught flat on their backs and asleep when it hit. They moved one of the temporary cots from the office to the cell block, shuffled bed assignments, and he assigned one of them to be awake at all times, taking two-hour turns.
Bob took the first turn himself, since he knew he wasn’t ready for sleep anyway. Sitting at his desk, he idly wondered if, when he did sleep again, he would dream of his days on the run from Texas law as the Devil’s River Kid. With the threat of potential exposure from the Cheyenne newspaper reporter now past, he hoped those dreams were past, too . . . not that thoughts of those days and an underlying fear they would someday somehow be revealed were ever totally over with. His biggest concern, if it came to that, wasn’t for himself but for Bucky. The boy would have to face the emptiness of being without either of his parents. He’d have Consuela, of course, but that would only mean that Bob had let both of them down.
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Page 18
