Tin Star

by Jackson Lowry

  He jumped back when a rider galloped past so close he felt the sting of the reins. The rider whipped his horse furiously for no reason Luke could see. A quick brush cleaned off dust from the encounter. He looked after the rider, but the man had skidded to a halt, raising an even bigger cloud. With a loud shout, the man went into a saloon.

  For a moment Luke thought the grit in his eyes blurred his vision. Or maybe locoweed had mixed with the dust, and he was seeing things. His hand went to his six-gun, but he paused. Should he alert the marshal? Even if he wasn’t for certain who he had seen?

  He drew his Model 3, broke it open and checked to be sure he carried six rounds, then snapped it shut and ran for the saloon. If that wasn’t Crazy Water Benedict who had almost run him down, it was someone who could be his twin.

  The saloon was crowded with men spilling out almost as fast as others went in. Luke pushed his way through and stood by the faro case box, where a bored dealer in a frilly scoop-neck dress went through the motions of flopping out cards and taking drunk patrons’ money. Luke stood on tiptoe to get a better look at everyone in the jammed room. Faro bettors intent on bucking the tiger kept jostling him. He pushed one back, then jumped onto the faro table, creating quite a commotion. It might have been the most interested the dealer had been all day.

  “You get on down from there, honey. Unless you’re putting yourself up to bet. You’re about the handsomest chip I ever did see.” This caused a ripple of laughter and saved Luke from being dragged off by irate gamblers all trying to catch a glimpse down the dealer’s décolletage as she leaned forward.

  He whirled around. His heart almost stopped when he saw Crazy Water Benedict at the rear of the bar, talking with two others. In spite of studying the wanted posters and etching likenesses of the gang into his head, Luke didn’t recognize either of the men Crazy Water harangued. He threw caution to the winds and jumped from the faro table to the top of the Brunswick bar. Men along the entire length grabbed their drinks to keep him from kicking them over.

  Luke had made it halfway to Benedict when the bartender wrapped strong arms around his legs and tackled him. Crashing forward onto the bar knocked the wind from his lungs. Gasping for air prevented him from effectively fighting. The barkeep grabbed him by the coat collar and heaved him out onto the sawdust-covered floor. Luke overturned a cuspidor when he hit hard. He recoiled from the sticky, brown, smelly gunk and clambered to his knees. The men at the bar crowded him and made no effort to help him stand.

  “You loco drunk!” the barkeep raged at him, shaking a fist. “You don’t walk on my bar. I paid good money for it to be sent all the way from Philadelphia!”

  Luke clawed his way to his feet. His gun hand was sticky with sludge from the cuspidor. He wiped his hand on his pant leg. Then he pulled his six-gun. This got everyone’s attention. The barkeep yelled for his bouncers and a fistfight broke out between two nearby patrons as he made his way toward the back of the gin mill.

  The bouncers ignored him in favor of breaking up the fight. This created even more chaos, like dominoes falling over. Luke twisted and turned and kicked his way free into an oasis of calm not ten feet from Benedict.

  Their eyes met. For a moment, Benedict looked puzzled. Then he let out a yelp of pure anger and went for his six-shooter. Luke had his out already and fired. Just as he squeezed the trigger a drunk crashed into him. The shot went high and shattered the huge mirror behind the bar. Luke cursed his bad luck, but it also saved him. Benedict opened fire, spraying lead everywhere. If Luke had remained where he was, he would have been a dead duck. One bullet cut through the brim of his hat and another creased his cheek.

  He regained his balance. The world seemed to have been dipped in molasses. Everything moved slowly, deliberately, with every detail sharp-edged and vivid. Luke raised his six-gun as if fighting against heavy weights on his arm. His thumb drew back the hammer. Hair by hair his trigger finger tightened. Fear blossomed in Crazy Water Benedict’s face. That was almost as good as killing the man.

  Almost.

  The trigger finally came back all the way. The hammer fell with a dull click on a dud round.

  Two bouncers grabbed Luke and lifted him high. He twisted around to see Benedict kick open a door at the end of the bar and vanish through it. Then he was fighting both men intent on whaling the tar out of him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A SOLID PUNCH to the breadbasket drove Luke Hadley to his knees. He gasped for air and tried not to bend forward too far because he knew what was coming next. A rising knee barely missed his chin. If it had connected, he would have been out like a light. With a twist that took him away from the bouncer so intent on turning him into a battered side of beef, he staggered into a trio of men fighting one another. Luke was too confused to figure how that fight went. He threw his arms around the closest cowboy and bulldogged him to the floor. A tiny tornado of sawdust kicked up, giving him the chance to roll until he fetched up hard against the back wall.

  Fighting to get his breath back, he watched the ebb and flow of the donnybrook. In a way it mesmerized him. He had always enjoyed watching waves go down the Mississippi. They’d rise up and move swiftly out of sight, but another always followed and another and another, marching off with precise spacing like soldiers on parade. Washing against a shore caused them to break apart. The bar fight was like that. As the tide came back, men broke off in pairs and the fight went out of them. A few righted tables and gathered scattered cards from poker games interrupted by the fight. The faro dealer was no novice. She had scooped up all the bets on her table and clutched them to her ample bosom until the fight ended and the gambling started back up.

  As his senses returned, he realized this was his fight. Luke had started it by running along the bar. He had a chance to stop Benedict and had failed. Lifting his six-shooter, he broke it open, knocked the brass out and reloaded all the cartridges to be sure he got rid of the dud round. The outlaw had hightailed it out the back door. He couldn’t have gone far.

  Standing on wobbly legs, Luke realized he had let his anger get the better of him. If he’d killed Mal Benedict, he might never find where Audrey had been taken.

  He thrust his six-shooter back into the holster and edged along the wall, avoiding the increasingly sporadic fighting the best he could. When he got to the back door, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and whirled him around. He thought a bouncer had caught up with him, but it was one of the men Benedict had been arguing with.

  “You’re stayin’ put,” the man said. He lisped a little because of a harelip. “Crazy Water, he tol’ me to give him a big head start.”

  Luke feinted with his left and landed a right on the man’s cheek. His head snapped back and he stumbled. Before Luke could get out the door, the man pulled himself upright using the bar and went for his gun. The discharge filled the room with gun smoke and an echo that sent some of the men diving for cover. The more determined kept fighting.

  The slug intended for Luke’s head took another chunk out of his hat brim. If it started raining, that hat would be like a rain gutter funneling water onto his face. A quick twitch brought his Model 3 into his fist. He fanned off two fast rounds. Both missed. One tore splinters from the bar and another broke a beer mug.

  Benedict’s partner got off another round, but he wasn’t aiming. The bullet went wild and brought down plaster from the ceiling. Luke knew this gunfight had to end fast or some bystander would get ventilated. He took more time aiming and squeezed off a third round. Again he missed. Going back to his original tactic, he fanned the remaining three rounds in the outlaw’s direction. By now the man had rolled a table around and crouched behind it. He peered out and took a couple shots at Luke.

  “I don’t want you,” Luke shouted. “I want Benedict.”

  “He’d skin me alive if I let you go after him. Knowing Crazy Water, that might be the kindest thing he’d do.”

  “The woman
he kidnapped. She’s what I want. I . . . I’ll let Benedict go if I get my wife back unharmed.”

  “She’s Benedict’s now. And I know who you must be, in spite of him filling you full of lead back then. He told me all about how he took her from your wedding.”

  Luke saw red. The man’s taunts ripped away any remaining good sense he had. He rushed forward and smashed into the table. He turned it over and pinned the man under it. One hand holding a six-gun flopped around. The man’s finger tightened and a round went sailing off to hit a gambler who had refused to leave his table. The gambler screeched like a banshee and produced a derringer from some lever-and-rod attachment fastened to his left forearm. He fired, and he didn’t care if he hit Luke or the outlaw under the table.

  A splinter from the derringer round kicked up into Luke’s face. He winced, giving the outlaw a chance to heave out from under the table.

  The entire saloon was in pandemonium. Men still fought, not caring who they punched, but the real danger came from the few who added their six-shooters to the fray. Lead flew everywhere. Luke plucked at the splinter in his cheek. His fingers came away red with his own blood. Not only had a sliver of wood embedded itself in his face but at least two rounds had creased him. The blood oozed from the shallow wounds. When he saw it, his fury rose to Olympian heights.

  He roared and dived for the retreating outlaw. His arms circled the man’s waist and pulled him down. He was rewarded with a kick to the groin. For a split second, he loosened his hold. The outlaw kicked again. A new bloody groove appeared on Luke’s face as a spur raked his cheek.

  Arms windmilling, he threw punches at anything that moved. Some of the blows landed where they did the most good. One hit the barkeep as he came around to break up the fight.

  “Quit it, you two. I’m throwing you out. Where are the bouncers! Get over here and help me!”

  Luke tried to use his six-gun again, but strong fingers closed around his wrist and forced him to aim at the ceiling. One round fired. With a heave, Luke got the barkeep off him and leveled his six-gun at the outlaw. His finger came back on the trigger, then his arms were pinned to his sides. A lariat tightened. A second rope caught his foot. With a jerk on the ropes, he crashed to the ground. He had seen calves hog-tied for branding. Whoever used the ropes duplicated the technique way too well.

  “Quit struggling. Don’t make me drop a noose around your neck.” The circle of rope around his upper arms tightened.

  He tried to kick free of the loop about his foot and only fell heavily. Panting harshly, he looked up and saw the marshal holding the lariat pinning his arms down. A deputy tugged on the other rope to keep him stretched out helplessly.

  “Arrest that one, Marshal Wilkes. He’s one of the Rhoades gang!” Luke saw how little effect his demand had on the lawman or his deputy. He watched in fury as he lost his chance to catch Rhoades’s henchman.

  The owlhoot Benedict had been speaking to blasted free of the saloon and into the night. Luke raged. He tried to slip free from the ropes, only to find they tightened no matter how he moved. If the marshal came up with a branding iron, the scene from a roundup would be complete.

  “He won’t get far.” Marshal Wilkes yanked on the rope and brought Luke to a sitting position. The deputy released the rope around his foot so Luke lurched to his feet. “You calm enough?” The lawman yanked on the rope and pulled it so tight it cut off Luke’s air.

  The lasso had another purpose. Circulation to his arms was cut off, forcing him to drop his six-gun. The marshal picked up the pistol and tucked it into his belt. He yanked hard and sent Luke staggering.

  “Let’s go. Your barroom brawling is over for the night.”

  “It’s over for all time!” the barkeep yelled, and waved his fist in the air. “He’s banned for life! If he sticks his nose in here again, I’ll shoot it off! I’ll have the bouncers cut it off! And feed it to him!”

  “Cool down a mite,” the marshal said. “Tally up a bill for the damage. I’ll see that it gets paid.”

  This mollified the bartender a little. He went to the back of the bar and picked up a rag to begin the cleanup. The last thing Luke heard as he was dragged outside was a customer saying to the barkeep, “Stand us all to a drink and put it on your repair list. You owe us!”

  The response became too muffled to understand. But the real drama unfolded in the street. The outlaw had been roped by three deputies, and they held him spread-eagled in the dirt. Only one arm thrashed about. The other was pinned to his side and each of the remaining deputies had lassoed a leg.

  “He’s one of Rhoades’s gang. He was getting orders from Crazy Water Benedict!”

  “I told you to quiet down,” the marshal said. “Ask anyone in town about me, Benson Wilkes, and they’ll tell you I am not prone to get upset. That said, my patience is at the end of its rope. If you push me, I’ll see that you’re at the end of your rope, only it’ll be a noose around your filthy neck.”

  As if Luke were nothing more than a dog on a leash, the marshal pulled him along. As they passed the outlaw flopping around in the street, Luke tried to kick him. This got him an especially hard tug on his rope.

  “I got you for disturbing the peace, shooting up the best saloon in town—and that’s saying something special since Crossroads has a dozen—and now I got you for assault and battery on a helpless man.”

  “He’s an outlaw!”

  “So you say. I don’t remember seeing his aspect on any wanted poster, and I keep a close lookout.”

  “But Benedict! He—”

  “Inside. Now.” The marshal released the rope with a deft flip. He added a boot to the rear to get Luke moving in the right direction.

  Luke fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out the tin star.

  “Look, Marshal, I’m sorry this happened but—”

  “I don’t give two hoots and a holler if you’re Allan Pinkerton himself. In there. Second cell.”

  “But—”

  Benson Wilkes held up a cautioning finger. There wasn’t anything that would change his mind. Luke put the badge away. It wasn’t going to keep him from being jailed. The best he could hope for was being run out of Crossroads as he had been from Preston. That wasn’t going to make finding the gang any easier.

  As he perched on the edge of the bed, a thought gave him a rueful smile. He was spending more time in the lockup than either Rhoades or Benedict. It was as if everything in his life had been turned upside down. Bitterness accomplished nothing. He had to use his head to get out of this predicament.

  A commotion outside the jailhouse brought him to his feet. For a moment he hoped the marshal would put the other man in the same cell. Beating the location of Rhoades’s hideout from him would vent some of the steam Luke felt building inside. Without some release, he’d have no option but to explode.

  “In the first cell,” the marshal said. He shoved the outlaw hard enough to make him trip. Before the man recovered, the marshal slammed and locked the cell door. “I got additional charges to file against you.” He motioned. A deputy came in holding his nose. “Assaulting a peace officer’s good for a week in jail. After that sentence is served, we’ll talk about that ruckus in the saloon.”

  “It was all his fault.” The prisoner fixed sullen eyes on Luke. “He tried to do a cancan on the bar, then he went crazy.”

  “It’ll all get straightened out eventually.” The marshal opened a cabinet and put his prisoners’ six-guns in a drawer. Luke watched carefully. The cabinet was locked and the key vanished into the lawman’s vest pocket, next to his pocket watch. It would be easier to rip off the cell door than to steal the key without Benson Wilkes realizing it.

  Luke sank back to the bed. Crossroads was more prosperous and had an actual bed in the cells, unlike Preston. That did nothing to make being locked up set better with him.

  “When’s your judge supposed to get to
town?” Luke tried to figure out if the one promised for Preston was likely to arrive before or after Crossroads. He wanted the trial to be over and done.

  “No set time. He leaves sentencing up to me, mostly.” The marshal sank into his chair and hiked his boots up to the desktop. With a practiced nod, he brought the brim of his hat down over his eyes. In less than a minute snores filled the small jailhouse.

  Luke went to the bars between his cell and the outlaw’s. He tried staring the man down but didn’t get too far.

  “I’m not sayin’ a word, not to the law and not to you.” The outlaw stretched out on his bed and laced his fingers under his head. “The deputy said you was a Pinkerton man. The Pinks got no call comin’ for me.”

  “What’d Crazy Water Benedict tell you? The pair of you were having a real good talk.”

  “Who’s that? Crazy Water? Never heard of a gent named Crazy Water.”

  “Mal, then. Mal Benedict. But you know him. He made a beeline for you when he got to the saloon. You were waiting for him. Was he giving you orders or finding out something you’d learned about the bank?” Luke was pleased to see the man’s reaction. He tried to hide it, but he stiffened in shock.

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Mister Pinkerton agent man.” With that sarcastic gibe he rolled over to face the wall, but Luke saw he wasn’t asleep. He just refused to talk anymore.

  Luke began pacing the small cell. His quick eyes hunted for a way out. If anything, this cell was tighter than the one he’d been locked up in back in Preston. For a bunch of farmers and ranchers, they spent the money to securely incarcerate the town’s prisoners. He jumped up onto the bed and peered out the barred window. He was downwind from the livery stable. He inhaled deeply, as if this had the ability to transport him to his horse. All he got out of it was a frustration at being locked up.