Sidewinders#2 Massacre At Whiskey Flats

by William W. Johnstone

  And that was just north of the bridge.

  Mayor McHale didn’t say anything about the part of the settlement south of the bridge, and when Reilly pointed that out, the mayor paused and frowned.

  “To tell you the truth,” McHale said, “it would be all right with most of us in this part of town if everything south of the bridge disappeared.”

  Bo knew good and well that wasn’t true. Respectable folks liked to make a lot of noise about getting rid of the undesirable elements in a settlement, but as Reilly had pointed out earlier, the saloons and gambling dens and brothels south of the bridge probably couldn’t stay in business if it weren’t for the customers who slipped across the creek in the dark of the moon to patronize them.

  “I don’t reckon we can run them out entirely,” Reilly said. “But we can certainly do our best to clean them up and stop all the violence down there. Give me and my deputies a chance, Mayor, and we’ll make a big difference here in Whiskey Flats.”

  McHale nodded and looked relieved. “I’m sure you will. Anything we can do to help you, you just ask.”

  “Well,” Reilly said with a smile, “if you could point me toward that hotel room you mentioned, I wouldn’t mind freshening up. We’ve been on the trail for quite a few days, and it’s been a long, dusty ride.”

  “Of course,” McHale said quickly.

  Bo spoke up. “Our horses need taken care of, too.” He wasn’t surprised that Reilly had forgotten about their mounts, since he wasn’t a true frontiersman…yet. There was still hope for him, though.

  “I’ve already thought of that,” McHale said with a nod. “Just a little while ago, I told my hostlers to see to them, to give them the best stalls in the barn, a good rubdown, and plenty of grain and water.”

  Bo nodded and said, “We’re much obliged.”

  McHale had already turned away, though, and was saying to Reilly, “Come on, Marshal, and I’ll introduce you to Warren Macready, who owns the hotel.”

  “That’s exactly the man I want to meet.” Reilly glanced over his shoulder at Bo as he started to walk away with McHale. “Keep an eye on the town while I see about that hotel room, won’t you, Deputy Creel?”

  “Sure, Marshal,” Bo said dryly. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Once Reilly had gone off with Mayor McHale, Bo found that the citizens of Whiskey Flats weren’t nearly as interested in him. In fact, they pretty much left him alone to amble around the town and continue looking it over. He paused when he found himself on the boardwalk outside the Morning Glory Café.

  That was an interesting name for an eatery, he thought, and since Reilly was counting on him to take care of the mundane details of running the marshal’s office, Bo decided to go on in and see if he could make arrangements for the feeding of current and future prisoners in the jail.

  At this time of day the place was fairly busy, and Bo’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The tables, covered with blue-checked cloths, were all occupied, but there were empty seats at the counter. As Bo took one of them, brushing back the long tails of his black coat as he did so, a woman emerged from the kitchen through a swinging door behind the counter. She carried a tray containing several plates heaped with steak and potatoes and other fixin’s.

  Bo was immediately struck by how handsome she was, with dark hair only lightly threaded with silver done up in a bun on the back of her head. Her eyes were a dark, piercing blue. She wore a white apron over a gingham dress, and the dress was snug enough to reveal that she was a fine figure of a woman. Bo looked at her left hand, checking for a wedding ring, and felt a little odd for doing so, since that was usually Scratch’s reaction to a good-looking woman of a certain age. No ring. Bo was pleased by that, which was even odder, but then he reminded himself that she could still be married and just not wearing her ring at the moment because she was working.

  She saw him sitting there on the counter stool, gave him a smile and a brief nod, and said, “I’ll be right with you, mister, as soon as I deliver this food.”

  “No hurry,” Bo told her. “I’ll study the menu while you’re gone.” He nodded toward a board on the wall behind the counter which read simply: BREAKFAST 25¢, LUNCH 50¢, SUPPER 40¢.

  That brought a laugh from her, and he liked the sound of it. She moved out from behind the counter with the tray and carried the lunches over to one of the tables where several hungry-looking men waited impatiently. Judging by the delicious aromas in the air and the eager reactions of the customers, the food at the Morning Glory Café had to be pretty darned good, Bo thought.

  Carrying the empty tray, the woman came back behind the counter and asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “Reckon I’ll have lunch.”

  “Good choice,” she said with a smile. “New in town, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Name’s Bo Creel.”

  Finely arched eyebrows rose a little. “You’re one of the new marshal’s deputies. I heard some of the men talking about you and that big shoot-out south of the bridge.”

  Bo shrugged and nodded. “Guilty as charged, ma’am.”

  “Goodness, don’t call me ma’am. Everybody just calls me Velma.” She extended a hand across the counter. “Mrs. Velma Dearborn.” She paused just a second as Bo gripped her hand, then added, “My late husband started this café, and now I run it.”

  “So it’s your place then?”

  “That’s right.” She laughed as she slipped her hand out of his. “You figured I was just the waitress, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t think about it one way or the other, ma’am…I mean Velma.” That was because he’d been too busy taking note of the fact that she was a widow, he thought. He’d definitely have to introduce Scratch to her, since she was the sort of gal he really liked.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t…just yet.

  “I’ve got an old Swede who cooks for me,” Velma Dearborn said, tilting her head toward the swinging door that led into the kitchen. “Otherwise, I do just about everything around here, including sweeping out the place. And right now, I’d better see about getting your food for you.”

  She went out to the kitchen, the door flapping shut behind her, and when she was gone, the whiskery old-timer sitting next to Bo dug an elbow in his ribs and said, “Mighty pretty filly, ain’t she?”

  “That she is,” Bo agreed.

  “I reckon half the fellas in this town’d eat here even if the food wasn’t so good.” The old man laughed. “Not that it does ’em any good. Velma’s friendly to ever’body, but she don’t get close to nobody. Not since her husband passed away a few years ago. Durn shame, if you ask me, a good-lookin’ gal like that a-witherin’ on the vine, but what can you do? It’s up to her what she does.”

  Bo nodded in agreement with the garrulous townie. It sounded like any man who got interested in Velma Dearborn would have a challenge on his hands if he tried to court her.

  Which meant it was good that he wasn’t looking to do such a thing.

  Velma came back a couple of minutes later with a plate for Bo. The steak was a little tough, but nothing compared to some of the buffalo steaks he had eaten in his time. And it had a fine flavor to it to compensate for the added chewing required. The potatoes were fried just right and seasoned with a little wild onion. A couple of fluffy biscuits worked mighty fine for sopping up gravy. Bo dug in with gusto and thoroughly enjoyed the meal, especially when Velma placed a glass of buttermilk in front of him. The buttermilk was cold enough so that drops of condensation formed on the glass and trickled down the sides.

  “What’d I tell you?” the whiskery old man asked. “Best grub in the territory, if you ask me.”

  “I reckon you might be right at that,” Bo said.

  He lingered over his meal until the lunch rush was over; then, after wiping up the last of his gravy with the final piece of biscuit and popping it into his mouth, he said to Velma, “Mrs. Dearborn, I have a question for
you.”

  She paused in cleaning up the counter and asked, “It’s not another marriage proposal, is it? No offense, but I’m not looking to get hitched again.”

  “Neither am I, ma’am,” Bo responded without hesitation. He had been married once, back in the days when Texas was a republic, but sickness had taken his wife and children. That tragedy had marked the beginning of his wandering days with Scratch, and he had never considered starting a family again. Bo was the sort of man who loved once in his life, with great and enduring passion…although he got some enjoyment out of whirling a pretty gal around a dance floor from time to time and suchlike as that.

  He went on. “What I had in mind to ask you was if you’d be interested in providing meals for the prisoners over at the jail. Your food is better than what they deserve, no doubt about that, but you’d, uh, be feeding the deputies on a regular basis, too, meaning me and my pard Scratch…”

  Velma laughed. “Do you plan on having many prisoners over there, Deputy Creel?”

  “Call me Bo,” he said. “We’ve got nearly a dozen hombres locked up right now, and there’s no telling how many there’ll be in the future. Marshal Braddock intends to clean up the town. That’s what he was hired for.”

  “And about time, too, if you ask me. The goings-on south of the bridge give the whole town a bad name…as if calling the place Whiskey Flats wasn’t bad enough to start with. And then, too, the violence spills over into this part of town sometimes. When bullets start to fly over there, they don’t stop at the creek.”

  “No, ma’am, they wouldn’t,” Bo agreed.

  “Would I get paid for providing meals to the jail?”

  “Of course,” Bo answered without hesitation. “You’d be paid a fair rate. I’d see to that.”

  “Talked it over with Mayor McHale, have you?”

  “Well…no,” Bo admitted. “Not yet. But he seems ready to give Marshal Braddock anything he needs to help bring law and order to the settlement.”

  “The whole town council feels that way, I expect, or they wouldn’t have hired such a famous lawman.” Velma nodded. “All right, if you can work the payment out with the mayor, I’ll take the job. I warn you, though, sometimes Jonas McHale can be pretty tight with a dollar.”

  Bo smiled. “I’ll have Marshal Braddock ask him about it. That ought to smooth the way.” He picked up the glass and drank the last of the buttermilk, then licked his lips in appreciation and satisfaction. “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time, Velma.” He took four bits from his pocket and placed the coins on the counter. “I’m much obliged.”

  “Come back any time, Bo,” she said with a smile as she picked up the money. “Pot roast for supper tonight.”

  Bo managed not to lick his lips in anticipation. “I’m looking forward to it already,” he said as he tipped his hat to the lady.

  Scratch was probably wondering where he had gotten off to, he thought as he moseyed back toward the marshal’s office and jail. The inhabitants of Whiskey Flats had settled back into their normal routines after the excitement of the gun battle and the arrival of “Marshal John Henry Braddock.” Nobody paid much attention to Bo.

  When he came into the office, he found that Scratch had gotten some water and coffee from somewhere and started a pot of Arbuckle’s boiling. Bo had noticed the battered old coffeepot on a shelf near the stove when he was there earlier. Scratch sat to one side of the rolltop with his chair leaned back and his feet propped on the front corner of the desk.

  “Careful of those spurs,” Bo warned him. “You’ll gouge holes in the desk.”

  “Won’t be the first ones,” Scratch said as he sat up straight. He leaned over and put the tip of his right little finger in a hole in the top of the desk. “Looks like a bullet hit here, and there’s three or four more like it. The way they’re arranged, I’d say one o’ the fellas who had this job before was sittin’ here when somebody opened up on him from the window and blew his lights out. What sort o’ damn fool would have his desk sittin’ so that his back was to the window?”

  “That’s a good question. We’ll move that desk around…or just not use it.”

  “Best warn the marshal about it, too,” Scratch said, obviously being careful not to refer to Reilly by his real name. He jerked a thumb toward the cell block. “Say, those varmints in there are still cater-waulin’ about bein’ hungry.”

  “I’m working on that,” Bo said. “Why don’t you go down to the doctor’s office and fetch that fella with the busted arm back here, then go try out the food at the Morning Glory Café.”

  Scratch grinned. “Good eats, are they?”

  “Mighty good. And the proprietor is a mighty fetching widow woman, too.”

  Scratch’s eyes lit up, and he practically bounded out of his chair. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” he demanded. “I’ll have that wounded hombre back here and locked up in a hurry, and then I’ll go see about gettin’ some lunch.”

  “I’m going to try to get the town to hire Mrs. Dearborn to provide meals for the jail.”

  “Mrs. Dearborn, eh?”

  Bo nodded. “Velma Dearborn.”

  Scratch repeated it. “Pretty name,” he commented.

  “I ain’t surprised that a pretty lady goes with it.” He cocked his cream-colored Stetson at a rakish angle. “If I ain’t back by suppertime, you’ll know where to look for me.”

  “Oh, you’ll be back before then,” Bo said. “You’ve got a prisoner to fetch, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, dang it!” Scratch hurried out, eager to be finished with this chore so that he could check out the food at the café…and the lady who was dishing it out.

  A little later, Reilly came in, whistling a merry tune. “Get settled in at the hotel, Marshal?” Bo asked him.

  “I sure did. It’s a pretty nice place for a town like this. Got a big bed with a nice soft mattress.”

  “Tried it out already, did you?” Bo asked dryly.

  “Well, it’s been a hectic day. I just caught a little nap, that’s all, then had a late dinner in the hotel dining room.”

  Bo would have been willing to bet that whatever Reilly had eaten, it hadn’t been as good as the meal he’d had at the café.

  Reilly looked around. “Where’s Scratch?”

  “Picking up the other prisoner at the doctor’s office. He ought to be back with the fella pretty soon. Then we’ll have the whole bunch locked up except for Tilden and the one I had to shoot. You’ll need to talk to the mayor about scheduling a hearing for the prisoners and an inquest for the dead man. Is there an actual judge in town?”

  “Hell if I know. Can’t you find out about things like that?”

  Bo lowered his voice and said, “It might look better if you did. You don’t want folks to get the idea that you’re not in charge.”

  Reilly frowned and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Got to put the act over for a while. You have any ideas on how we’re gonna fleece these suckers?”

  “I’ve always got ideas,” Bo said, “but it’ll be better if we let things sort of percolate for a while.”

  “I suppose,” Reilly said with a sigh. “I just don’t want to have to keep this up for too long.” He added in a worried voice, “As long as I’m wearing this badge, somebody’s liable to start shooting at me again!”

  CHAPTER 12

  The rest of the afternoon was busy, but peaceful enough. No more trouble broke out south of the bridge, or anywhere else in Whiskey Flats, for that matter. Scratch brought the wounded prisoner back from Doc Summers’s place and locked him up, then had plenty to say to Bo about how pretty Velma Dearborn was and how good the food at the Morning Glory Café was, too.

  “By God, it’s almost enough to make a man think about settlin’ down,” Scratch declared. “If a fella could find hisself a woman who looks like that, and can cook like that, he’d be a plumb fool to pass up the chance.”

  Bo just smiled and nodded. Scratch said pretty much the same thing every t
ime he was enamored of some lady. Bo knew that when the time came to make a decision, though, Scratch would choose the open trail rather than a placid life in some settlement. Once a man got used to answering the siren call of the frontier, it was hard to ignore for very long. The mountains, the prairies, the magnificent blue arch of the sky with an eagle soaring through it, all exerted a powerful pull on a fella…

  Scratch stayed at the jail while Bo and Reilly went to see Mayor Jonas McHale again. McHale wasn’t very happy about having to cover the expense of the prisoners’ meals, but he sighed and nodded in agreement to the proposal Bo made.

  “One thing you can say about Velma Dearborn, she’s as honest as the day is long,” the mayor declared. “She won’t try to cheat the town when it comes time to settle up with her.”

  Bo thought he could say a lot more for Velma than just that she was honest, but he kept that to himself. Anyway, honesty was important…leastways, except to hombres like Jake Reilly, and Bo still had hopes that the responsibility of being the settlement’s lawman would force the young man to grow up and see things a mite differently.

  As far as judicial matters went, McHale admitted that he had served as the community’s magistrate as well as mayor, ever since being elected. “I’m not sure that such an arrangement is really proper, but nobody else wanted the job. Of course, when we didn’t have a marshal, it didn’t matter who was the judge, because there weren’t any cases to try. Lawlessness ran rampant around here.” He smiled proudly. “That’s not the case now. You’ve already proven that, Marshal, with your swift and decisive action earlier today.”