Winchester 1886

by William W. Johnstone

  The man in the derby who kept sucking his teeth checked as well.

  The skinflint beside him tossed in his cards and swore. “It ain’t even good enough to check with.” He reached for his flask. Man was even too cheap to buy whiskey.

  The lady gambler bet fifty. The dealer, a gent with a crooked nose and brown bowler, matched the bet, and it was back to Danny Waco . . . who saw their fifty and raised a hundred.

  “Checking and raising,” said the dealer, “can get a man killed.”

  “So can a crooked nose, bowler hat, and big mouth,” Waco said.

  The gambler’s face turned ashen. The lady gambler laughed softly, but was already reaching for her chips.

  She was all right. Waco decided that he would hate taking all her money.

  The teeth sucker folded, saying, as every fool seemed to say, “Too rich for me.”

  The skinflint, who had already folded, pushed his chair back. and stood. “I’m callin’ it quits, friends.”

  Waco watched him weave through the batwing doors.

  The lady gambler saw Waco’s hundred and raised again. The dealer folded.

  Waco wondered about her. Red hair. Green eyes. Not pretty, but not like that soiled dove who was still pestering Gil Millican. Without looking at his cards, Waco called the lady’s bet.

  The dealer asked, “How many?”

  Waco took one. A five of clubs. No help. But two pair, especially jacks and queens, still proved to be a powerful hand.

  The lady said, “I’m good.”

  “I expect you are,” Waco said, grinning and watching her reaction.

  She had none.

  Straight? Flush? Nah. Waco figured her to be bluffing. A good bluff, too. He looked at the stack of cash, coin, chips, and the skinflint’s pocket watch. He had made up his mind to call and raise her two hundred, let her sweat that one out, when Tonkawa Tom pushed through the batwing doors and made a beeline for Waco’s poker table.

  Jimmy Mann crossed the bridge over the South Platte River, barely pausing to look at the saloons, gambling dens, and brothels that still lined River Street. Late in the year, and late in the life of the once wild and woolly cow town, there weren’t as many saloons, gambling dens, and brothels, and certainly not as many horses tethered to the hitching rails out front as in the past. He followed Spruce Street over the rails, past the depot, and to Railroad Avenue, where he found the jail and the marshal’s office.

  Inside, he found a deputy who sent him to the Platte House.

  The lawman, a short, squat man named Munroe was eating an early supper. Jimmy introduced himself. The lawman motioned at the empty chair across from his ham and biscuits, and Jimmy slid out the chair and sat down, resting the battered old Winchester on the tabletop.

  Munroe stared at the carbine, pulled out the napkin he had stuck in the neck of his shirt, and dabbed the gravy off his mustache. The napkin dropped onto the table. He pushed back his chair and sized up Jimmy Mann. “What brings a deputy United States marshal to this part of the world?” He reached for his coffee cup.

  Jimmy was aware that everyone in the dining room had stopped eating. He couldn’t hear a knife scraping a plate or anyone slurping coffee. Outside, through the big window, he saw people walking down the boardwalk, a freight wagon rumbling down Railroad Avenue. Inside, they stared. That Winchester had gotten their attention.

  “Danny Waco,” Jimmy answered in a bare whisper.

  Munroe left the coffee cup on the table. His hand disappeared. “You sure?”

  Jimmy’s head shook. “It’s a guess.” He knew not to waste time asking the town marshal if he had seen him. Munroe’s reaction had already told him the answer. His paling face also told Jimmy there was no need in asking for assistance in arresting Waco, if Waco were indeed hanging his hat in Ogallala.

  “So . . . knowing what you know about Danny Waco . . . where would I look?” Jimmy figured the lawman would have read all those articles in the National Police Gazette, whatever the Ogallala newspaper called itself, and the wanted posters . . . maybe even the two Beadle & Adams dime novels that glorified the outlaw the way they made heroes out of Jesse James, Sam Bass and Billy the Kid.

  Munroe found enough strength to grab his coffee cup and drank some. Probably would have preferred whiskey. Inhaled deeply, blew it out, and motioned with a tilt of his head. “River Street.”

  “Any place in particular?”

  “This town used to bring in floaters from all over, but they’d go back to Omaha or Cheyenne, Deadwood or Denver City once the cow business ended. Come back in late spring, early summer. Wouldn’t be but one saloon open in December.”

  Jimmy waited impatiently. He didn’t care one whit about a lecture on The History of Ogallala, Nebraska. He repeated the question.

  Munroe shrugged. “Would Waco want to get drunk or get . . . ?” He looked over his shoulder, and let the sentence die.

  “Whiskey,” Jimmy answered. “Poker. And a woman.”

  “The Cowboys Rest,” Munroe answered.

  “It still around?” Jimmy had heard of it, mostly from older lawmen talking about the wild old days ten to twenty years back.

  “More or less,” Munroe said. “Ol’ Tuck sold out after the herds stopped coming in, but the place hasn’t changed much. Quieter, maybe, but there’s still loose women, roulette wheels, poker tables, and plenty of John Barleycorn. Local cowboys come in, mostly. Most of them don’t even carry revolvers.”

  Danny Waco would. Jimmy knew that. He thanked the lawman, grabbed his Winchester, and stood.

  “Marshal?”

  Jimmy waited.

  After clearing his throat, Munroe said, “Our jail was built back in ’75. Stone building. Folks called it ‘the most substantial jail west of Omaha.’ It wasn’t, of course. And it sure isn’t strong enough to hold a man like Danny Waco.”

  Jimmy nodded. “It won’t have to,” he said, his voice cold, emotionless. “Boot Hill will hold Danny Waco. I aim to kill him.”

  Waco always sat facing the door. That’s one reason he had lived so long. He held up on raising the lady gambler and let Tonkawa Tom make his way to the poker table. The barkeep and a few others frowned at the sight of an Indian, even a half-breed, in the Cowboys Rest, but none had enough guts to say or do anything about it.

  The Tonk knelt at the table on Waco’s left and whispered, “Lawman just met with town law. Wears badge like Parker’s deputies.”

  Waco grinned at the patient lady gambler. “And his horse?”

  “Been on the trail long time.”

  “Now what would a deputy from Arkansas and the Indian Territory be doin’ this far north?”

  “Didn’t ask. But he carried a carbine. On his lap. Not in scabbard. Him ready. Him lookin’ for somebody. Me guess . . . you be who he after.”

  Shaking his head, Waco sighed. “A body can’t get no rest no more, seems like.” Well, he could wait. Nothing like a good gun fracas to get one’s blood a-boiling.

  On the other hand, there was a time and a place to fight, and Ogallala, Nebraska, wasn’t it. The way Danny Waco figured things, it would take the lawdog from Indian Territory an hour or two to round up enough brave, law-abiding citizens to cross the railroad tracks and walk down Railroad Street to chase out or kill that undesired element. Best thing to do, then, would be to light out right away, move north and follow the North Platte and the old Oregon Trail northwest, then turn north toward the Black Hills.

  Maybe a body could find a good card game and no persnickety lawdogs in a place like Deadwood up in Dakota Territory. No, it was South Dakota these days. A regular state. More progress. That was the problem with the West—not enough frontier left anymore for an owlhoot to get any rest.

  “Where are our horses?” Waco asked.

  “Outside.”

  “Fetch Millican from that hussy. Tell him we’re leavin’.”

  With a nod, The Tonk rose, and crossed the room toward the bar.

  Waco smiled at the lady gambler. He h
ated doing it, but he moved his hand from his winnings, and laid his cards on the table. “I always hate foldin’ a winnin’ hand, little lady, but I am a gentleman and decided to let you bluff me.” He started to rake his winnings into his hat.

  The woman—he wished he could remember her name—shook her head at Waco’s high two pair and laid her own cards on the table as she swept the pot in front of her. She didn’t have to show her cards.

  Waco knew that. She was classy, this dame, and he would have enjoyed getting to know her better. A lot better than that strumpet who had been trying to woo Gil Millican into spending an extra dollar or two on her.

  “It wasn’t a bluff, Mister Waco.”

  He stopped and stared. Not only did she know his name, she knew how to play good poker. It was a good thing Tonkawa Tom had come in with that news. Else Waco would have lost a whole lot more money.

  The lady had a full house. Aces over eights. Not the Dead Man’s Hand—that was two pair, which would have also beaten Waco’s cards—but a sure-fire winner.

  “Maybe I’ll see you down the road.” He went to the bar to cash out any chips he had. And to have a shot of rye for the long trail north. “And have some better luck.”

  “Maybe.”

  When he had his money stuffed inside his jacket pocket and the thickening money belt he wore under his shirt, Waco stepped onto the boardwalk. Millican and The Tonk were already in the saddle.

  “We runnin’?” Millican seemed a bit testy since Waco had interrupted that budding romance.

  “Nope,” Waco lied. “Playin’ the odds is all. Three days is long enough in one town. I hear Deadwood callin’ our names, boys.”

  That made both of them smile.

  Waco loosened the reins, but said before he started to climb into the saddle, “Let’s get us a little grubstake out of that little ol’ bank up in Chadron.”

  Their smiles widened.

  And quickly faded when a voice called out, “Hold it, Waco. Move and you’re dead!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Jimmy Mann understood, and immediately regretted, his mistake. He ducked as all three outlaws palmed their six-shooters and cut loose.

  Give a man like Danny Waco a chance, and you might get killed. Jimmy knew better. He should have just drawn a bead on Waco’s back and pulled the Winchester’s trigger. Then maybe the other two vermin might have given up. If not, by the time the shock had worn off from seeing their leader shot dead, Jimmy could have dropped both Millican and the Indian from their saddles.

  As soon as he’d shouted the warning, Jimmy moved, ducking and dropping behind the abandoned frame building that once had likely been a saloon.

  Two bullets tore into the dust of the street behind him. A third shot blew out a chunk of rotting wood. A couple other rounds hit the boardwalk. Jimmy’s Winchester roared.

  The deafening sound of gunfire caused Waco’s big horse to back away, jerking the reins from the outlaw’s grip.

  The Tonk wheeled his horse around, and bolted down the street, toward the river.

  Smart man. Jimmy would give Tonkawa Tom that much credit. His loyalty was to himself. It wasn’t his job to save his pard’s life.

  Millican’s horse began rearing in the street, but Gil Millican was game enough not to drop his revolver and start pulling leather to keep from being bucked off. He even managed to loosen a bullet, but it went high, not close to Jimmy’s position.

  Moving the barrel, Jimmy tried to find Waco in his sights, but that horse kept getting in his way. The Tonk was gone. Shouts came from all directions. One idiot even came through the doors of his shop across the street, saw the smoke, the panicking horses, and then stupidly ran to his windows, trying to close the shutters to protect the glass.

  Jimmy aimed, fired, and saw splinters fly from the column that held up the awning to the Cowboys Rest. Waco ducked. His horse skedaddled, taking off down the street, not toward the river, but toward town proper. Cursing, he fired twice from the hip as he ran, making a beeline for the nearest side street.

  Jimmy braced the carbine against the wall below where a bullet had torn out a good-sized piece of plank, but before he squeezed the trigger, Millican managed another shot. That one proved a whole lot closer than his others.

  In retaliation, Jimmy jerked the trigger, but missed. He turned away, pulling the Winchester with him and jacking another cartridge into the chamber. He quickly turned back and put a bullet through the crown of Millican’s hat. The gunman had regained some control of his mount, spurred the horse hard, and took off. Not even stopping, barely slowing, he helped Danny Waco swing up behind him. They disappeared around the side of a brothel. Jimmy could see the upstairs curtains moving, and could make out the distorted figures of painted ladies staring at the ruction on the streets below.

  He imagined what they were saying. “Haven’t seen nothin’ like this since eighty-four or eighty-five.” “Ain’t nobody dead yet. So we ain’t lost no customers.”

  He cocked the Winchester and turned to his own horse, which he had tethered to a rain barrel. It was nervous, eyes wild. Sure wasn’t Old Buck, but it could run. Jimmy grabbed the reins, leaped into the saddle, and sent the horse into a lope. Rounding the corner, he put the reins in his mouth and charged after Danny Waco and Gil Millican.

  It surprised him that none of the outlaws went south, toward the South Platte and the bridge over the river. They had turned north, even The Tonk. Jimmy didn’t think they were setting him up for any ambush, but going north meant they would either have to cross the North Platte or ride alongside it. Not that the river ever held much water. Or was deep. But crossing any stream or river would slow them down, and riding midstream offered no protection, no place to hide.

  He saw the dust, dug the spurs in deeper, felt the horse find even more speed. Generally, a man did not shoot from a moving horse expecting to hit anything, but Jimmy let another .44-40 slug fly. As he left Ogallala proper, he saw Millican and Waco galloping past the hill northwest of town.

  He pulled the trigger, and the horse carrying the two outlaws went down hard.

  Millican flew over the horse’s neck as it fell, and Waco dropped to the side and rolled over. He came up firing from the supine position. Two shots. Both wide.

  How many rounds had Waco fired? Jimmy shook his head. It didn’t matter. He grabbed the reins from his teeth, pulled hard, slowing down his mount and leaping from the saddle even before the horse had stopped. Somehow, he landed on his feet, jacked the lever, fired as he ran, and then dived into the ditch.

  Waco was running up the hill. Too fast. Jimmy realized the man was running up some sort of steps.

  Millican had rolled over and was on his knees. His hat was gone, and he spat something that looked like blood. Jimmy fired. So did the outlaw as he dived behind the dead horse. His hand reached for the scabbard.

  Jimmy started to fire, but a bullet dug into the sod next to him. Waco had found a spot up the hill to shoot from. Jimmy flattened himself in the ditch, moving forward a few rods. He knew getting caught underneath another man’s gun—even a six-shooter—was not favorable. He came up just in time to see Millican running up those steps, carrying a repeating rifle.

  Something squeaked. Shut. Squeaked. Shut. Squeaked. Shut.

  He wanted to fire, but Millican shot with his revolver as he scrambled up those steps. A moment passed, and he was gone. Up the hill. With a carbine or rifle.

  Jimmy moved as fast as he could through the ditch, keeping his eyes open, watching as he scooted through the tall grass lining the hillside. It was dead, yet waving in the wind. Soon he detected the steps, and looking up toward the top of the hill saw a picket fence and gate that the wind kept blowing open.

  He felt a chill race up his spine and remembered his mama’s old superstition she’d always say whenever he shivered for no reason. “Someone just stepped on your grave, Jimmy.”

  He tried to spit—not enough saliva in his mouth—and moved up the hill, near the steps but not on t
hem. The wood and stone might give him some cover. Keeping the rifle trained up the hill, he moved slowly, carefully. He covered the last few feet in a lunge, and leaned against the fence, the gate next to him opening and closing, banging, fraying his nerves.

  Peering through the broken fence, he saw plenty more dead grass, some cactus, and a few shrubs. Mostly he saw the markers, wooden crosses and wooden slabs, faded with time. There were no fresh mounds. Not yet. By tomorrow, he realized, it might change.

  Again, he thought Someone just stepped on your grave, Jimmy.

  He moved through the gate, rifle ready, and sank into the grass, flattening himself, bringing the stock against his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. He chanced a look up at the nearest tombstone. The words were faded, but he could make them out.

  RATTLESNAKE ED

  KILLED BY

  LANK KEYES

  1884

  He was in Boot Hill. Maybe for all of eternity.

  “Give me that Winchester!” Danny Waco jerked the rifle from Gil Millican’s hand before he had even finished issuing his order. He looked at the gate to the cemetery, and shoved his own revolver into the holster. He pointed with his head, but never took his eyes off the fence. “Get on the other side of this boneyard. We’ll cut that Johnny Law down when he comes over the fence.”

  “How about the gate?” Millican asked.

  “He ain’t that dumb. He figures we’d expect him to come right through that gate. Do that, and we’d fill him with lead.” Waco laughed and brought his arm up to wipe his nose, leaking blood from the horse wreck. “Move!” he snapped, and heard footsteps as Millican rushed, hunched over, through the old, pretty much abandoned cemetery.

  The wind kept banging that gate. Annoying, it was, but Waco had learned to block out such noises. He looked off in the direction of town, figuring the law would come up somewhere on that side. But where?

  The wind blew the gate open again, and he saw the flash, the cloth, the sudden movement, and he turned, coming up, leveling the rifle, but that marshal from Judge Parker’s court had dived and landed beside an old tombstone.