Sidewinders#2 Massacre At Whiskey Flats

by William W. Johnstone

  Bo stepped forward, figuring it was time he gave Reilly a hand. “He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have more than three or four broken ribs, and if the swelling in his face goes down so that he starts to look human again in a week or so.”

  “Nobody cheats Chesterfield Pike.”

  “Well, then,” Reilly said, “how would it be if I arrested him for being a crooked gambler?”

  Pike’s bushy eyebrows, which looked two giant caterpillars crawling across his face, pulled down as he frowned. “You’d do that?” he asked.

  “I’m told that you spend most of your time up in the mountains, Pike,” Reilly said, surprising Bo a little now that he had regained his composure. “You probably didn’t know that we’ve got law and order here in Whiskey Flats now. But we do. Me and my deputies are responsible for enforcing it. So, yeah, we’ll arrest that fella, just as soon as Doc Summers says he’s healthy enough, and see that he pays a proper fine for what he did.”

  Pike took a step toward Reilly, and that one step seemed to carry him halfway across the room. “Why, that’s mighty decent of you, Marshal,” he boomed as he slapped Reilly on the shoulder. The friendly gesture knocked Reilly a couple of steps to the side.

  Reilly caught himself, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder, and said, “There’s just one thing, Mr. Pike. Since I’m the marshal, I have to enforce the law fair and square for everyone.”

  Pike nodded. “That makes sense, I reckon.”

  Reilly swallowed again. “That’s why I have to arrest you, too. You see, what that gambler did was wrong, but what you did was just as wrong. Maybe more so, because you’re so big.”

  Pike frowned darkly again and said in an ominous tone, “I never have cottoned to bein’ put in jail. Fact o’ the matter is, I never seen a jail that could hold me.”

  Bo could believe that. Someone as massively strong as Pike could probably wrench the iron bars right out of the windows in the jail. Of course, Pike’s shoulders wouldn’t go through one of those windows, but he could just kick himself a new doorway in the wall.

  Reilly wasn’t going to give up. He said, “I know you don’t like it, but it’s the only fair thing to do.”

  The saloon was quiet as everyone watched this confrontation. Probably most of the bystanders expected Pike to start ripping Reilly limb from limb at any second.

  But then Dodge Emerson stepped forward and said, “You know, Chesterfield, what the marshal is saying makes sense.”

  “It does?” Pike said, still frowning.

  Emerson nodded. “I’ll tell you what…you trust me, don’t you, Chesterfield?”

  The big head bobbed up and down. “You ain’t never steered me wrong, Mr. Emerson.”

  The saloon keeper reached up to rest a hand on Pike’s shoulder as he suggested, “Why don’t you go with the marshal and his deputies and spend the night in jail? I know for a fact that if you do, you’ll get breakfast tomorrow from the Morning Glory Café.”

  “Miz Velma’s place?” A big grin wreathed Pike’s rough-hewn face. “I do like Miz Velma’s food, that’s a plumb fact.”

  “All you’ll have to do is get a good night’s sleep, have a good breakfast, and then go to a hearing and pay a little fine. And I’ll take care of that for you. How does that sound?”

  “It don’t hardly sound like bein’ in jail a’tall.”

  “You’ll do it then?” Emerson persisted.

  Pike nodded again. “I sure will. You got my word on it.”

  Emerson turned to Reilly and said, “There you go, Marshal Braddock. Chesterfield’s word is his bond.”

  “Yeah, well, how do I know that?” Reilly asked skeptically.

  Emerson’s genial features hardened slightly. “Because my word is my bond, and I say you can trust him. That ought to be good…unless you want to call both of us liars.”

  Bo said, “I don’t reckon anybody wants to do that. Mr. Pike, would you come with me?”

  Pike pointed, “I’d rather go with Miss Rawhide. Didn’t I hear her say that she’s a deputy now, too?”

  Rawhide nodded. “That’s right, Chesterfield, I am. You’re not gonna give me any trouble?”

  Pike smiled sheepishly and shook his head. “No’m. My ma raised me to be a gentleman round ladies, and Mr. Emerson, he says you’re a lady even if you don’t dress like one and don’t always talk like one.”

  Rawhide shot a glance at the saloon keeper. “He says that, does he?”

  Emerson slid a cigar from his vest pocket. “I always try to tell the truth,” he said with a suave smile.

  Rawhide just grunted. She said to Pike, “Come on, Chesterfield. You’ll have the jail to yourself tonight, unless there’s any more trouble.”

  Pike went peacefully, lumbering along behind Rawhide. Bo nodded for Scratch to follow them, and then he and Reilly lingered for a moment in the saloon.

  “I’m obliged to you for your help in handling that big fella, Emerson,” Reilly said. “Things could’ve gotten ugly if you hadn’t stepped in like you did.”

  Emerson chuckled. “You don’t know the half of it, Marshal. But Chesterfield has always liked me and trusted me, so I thought I could get him to be reasonable. A man as big and short-tempered as he is, people just expect him to be loco all the time. But if you stay calm and treat him fairly, he’s generally not much trouble.”

  Bo said, “He’s not right in the head, is he?”

  “I wouldn’t think of it like that,” Emerson replied with a frown. “Have you ever known a really smart kid? I mean, a youngster who’s as smart as a whip?”

  Bo nodded. “I reckon I have.”

  “Well, that’s Chesterfield for you. He’s smart enough, but he just doesn’t know as many things as somebody his age usually would. Anybody who takes him for dumb would be making a big mistake…and it might just backfire on them.”

  “What about you?” Reilly asked.

  Emerson grinned. “Now, I never claimed to be smart.”

  “No, I mean why did you help us out? You’re supposed to be the one who’s getting together all the saloon owners and such south of the bridge to keep law and order from coming to Whiskey Flats.”

  Emerson’s grin went away. “Someone’s misinformed you,” he said in a flat, hard voice. “Sure, I think all of us down here could do better if we quit trying to cut each other’s throats all the time. There’s nothing wrong with some healthy competition, but gun battles like the ones between the Top-Notch and the Lariat the other day don’t do anybody any good. Mickey Tilden’s laid out with a gunshot wound, Fred Byrne’s slunk out of town with his tail between his legs, and four other men are dead.” Emerson looked at Bo. “Killed by you and your partner, I hear.”

  “They didn’t give us any choice in the matter,” Bo said.

  “I’m sure they didn’t. But if you lawdogs think I’m behind any of that, you’re dead wrong.” Emerson smiled again, but his eyes remained chilly. “I’m just a mostly honest businessman trying to get along the best I can. I don’t have any quarrel with you or your deputies, Marshal.”

  “That’s good to know,” Reilly said, but his tone made it clear that he didn’t fully believe Emerson’s claims. “Come on, Bo.”

  They left the saloon, and as they went through the batwings Bo glanced back and saw Emerson watching them with hooded eyes as he lit his cigar. Bo didn’t know what to make of the saloon keeper. If Emerson was telling the truth, he might not be as much of an enemy as Bo had expected him to be. On the other hand, the man could be a slick liar. He could have even been behind the attempt on their lives a few days earlier.

  “What do you think?” Reilly asked as they walked back across the bridge.

  “I don’t know,” Bo replied honestly. “I’m not sure what to make of him.”

  “I am. Sometimes it takes a crook to know a crook, and believe you me, Dodge Emerson is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”

  “I reckon we’ll see,” Bo said. “Right now, I want to make sure that Scratch and Rawhide
got that Pike fella locked up all right. His night isn’t going to be as comfortable as what Emerson made out it would.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve seen the bunks in those cells,” Bo said. “Pike’s going to hang off both ends!”

  CHAPTER 17

  Despite Bo’s prediction, the sound of raucous snoring came from the cell block as he and Reilly entered the marshal’s office a short time later. Scratch grinned from the chair, which he had tipped back against the wall as usual.

  “That big boy didn’t give us a lick of trouble,” he said. “Went right into one of the cells, told us to be sure and wake him up for breakfast, curled up on the floor like a big shaggy dog, and went off to sleep.”

  “On the floor?” Bo said.

  “That’s right. Didn’t seem to bother him at all.”

  Rawhide was over at the stove pouring herself a cup of coffee. As she turned toward the others, she lifted the cup and said, “I reckon since I’m a deputy now, I’m entitled to drink your coffee, too.”

  “Help yourself,” Reilly said. “Oh, that’s right, you already did.”

  She made a face at him, then perched a hip on a corner of the desk. “Now that I’ve got some authority, I want to do some more investigating about the rustling that’s been going on up at the Rocking B and the Star.”

  Bo poured himself a cup of Arbuckle’s and said, “The Rocking B would be Chet Bascomb’s spread, I take it?”

  Rawhide nodded. “And the Star belongs to Steve North.”

  “The North Star?” Scratch said.

  “Yeah,” Rawhide said with a smile. “Pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  “Fella’s got a right to name his ranch whatever he wants to, I reckon.”

  Reilly said, “You’re going out there to poke around by yourself?”

  “Why not?”

  “The last time you did that, you wound up being chased by a bunch of cowboys who were trying to shoot you, remember?” Reilly reminded her.

  “That won’t happen this time,” Rawhide insisted. “By the time I ride out there in a day or two, Bascomb and North will have heard that I’m a deputy now, and they won’t let their men shoot at an officer of the law. Both of those old-timers are rough as cobs, but they won’t want the trouble that would come down on their heads if some of their hands killed a star packer. They’re basically law-abidin’ gents, which is why I think somebody else is behind the widelooping, even though they’ve been blaming it on each other.”

  “You’re putting a lot of faith in a badge you don’t even have,” Reilly argued.

  “Why, Marshal, you sound like you don’t want anything bad to happen to me.” Rawhide grinned. “I didn’t think you cared.”

  Reilly flushed angrily. Bo thought he might be a little embarrassed, too. “If something happens to one of my deputies,” Reilly said, “it reflects badly on me, too, as well as on the office of the marshal. We’re trying to get people around here to respect the law, and it won’t help if you get yourself shot up.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Rawhide promised. “I know these parts, and the folks who live here, better than any of you three. I stand the best chance of finding out what’s really going on out there.”

  Reilly gave in with a reluctant nod. “All right. You might take Bo or Scratch with you, though, just in case.”

  “I reckon if I have to,” she said with a mock sigh.

  Bo took a sip of coffee and then said, “You know, we didn’t quite finish making our rounds.”

  “I plumb forgot about it after that fella came sailin’ through that plate-glass window,” Scratch said. “How do you reckon he’s doin’?”

  “One of us ought to go down to the doc’s and check on him.”

  “I’ll do that,” Rawhide volunteered. She left the office and headed for Dr. Summers’ place. Reilly stayed to watch the prisoner, while Bo and Scratch walked down Main Street to the bridge and resumed making sure that the town was quiet and settled in for the night…or at least, as quiet and settled in as this section of the settlement was going to get. Laughter and tinkling music would be coming from some of the saloons and other “dens of iniquity” all night.

  The two lawmen stayed together this time. As they passed the Royal Flush, they saw that the window through which Chesterfield Pike had tossed the luckless gambler was already boarded up. Dodge Emerson would have to get another pane of glass freighted up here from Santa Fe, which might be an expensive proposition. Bo recalled that Jonas McHale owned the local freight line. He was willing to bet that despite McHale’s dislike for Emerson, the mayor would take the saloon keeper’s money when it came to hauling freight.

  They didn’t run into any more trouble this time, and they had returned to the bridge and were walking over the creek when Bo suddenly paused.

  “Hold on a minute,” he told Scratch. As he came to a stop as well, Bo tilted his head a little and listened intently.

  “What is it?” Scratch asked before he heard the sounds of hoofbeats…and they were headed toward the two deputies in a hurry.

  The swift rataplan of a horse’s hooves carried through the night air, growing louder as the rider approached Whiskey Flats from the south. The two men turned to look in that direction.

  “Sounds like whoever it is, is in a mite of a hurry.”

  “A mighty big hurry,” Bo agreed.

  Scratch said, “A fella who’s ridin’ that fast is usually either runnin’ away from trouble or headin’ straight into it.”

  “Town’s quiet now, so the trouble must be behind him.”

  “Sounds like one horse,” Bo said before the rider had reached the southern end of Main Street. Bo and Scratch could see him now as a fast-moving shadow in the darkness, although there wasn’t enough light to make out any details yet.

  “Let’s get off the bridge,” Bo said. “Maybe we can stop him and find out what’s going on.”

  They hurried off the planks and took up positions at the southern end of the bridge. The horse and rider thundered closer. Bo waved his arms over his head and shouted, “Hold it! Hold it there, mister! Rein in!”

  “Stop in the name of the law!” Scratch added.

  None of it did any good. The horse continued to bolt. Bo could see now that the rider was slumped forward over the animal’s neck, apparently either unconscious or dead. There was no telling how long the horse had been running. It looked to be out of its head.

  The horse pounded on across the bridge. The way it was going, it might have kept running all the way to Colorado, if not for the fact that the slight jolt of going onto and then off of the bridge had unbalanced the rider. He swayed to the side and then toppled off, landing in the street and rolling over and over. He was lucky that neither of his feet had caught in a stirrup, Bo thought as he and Scratch ran across the bridge. If that had happened, the rider likely would have been dragged to his death.

  Assuming, of course, that he hadn’t already crossed the divide…

  Relieved of the burden it had been carrying, the panic-stricken horse finally slowed and then stopped. Even from this distance, Bo could hear the heaving of its labored breath. As they came closer, he saw that the horse wasn’t wearing a saddle; that was why the rider hadn’t gotten a foot caught in a stirrup. The animal had only a rope hackamore strapped on its head.

  Bo was more interested in the rider, who lay motionless in the street. He and Scratch hurried toward the man. When they came closer, they could tell that the rider wasn’t a man at all, but rather a boy in his early teens. He lay on his side, gasping for breath and moaning in pain. Bo felt a cold chill go through him at the side of the dark blotches on the boy’s shirt. Those were bloodstains, he knew, which meant that the youngster was hurt.

  “We need to be careful with him,” Bo warned as he knelt beside the boy. “Scratch, strike a match.”

  Scratch took a lucifer from his pocket and snapped it into life with his thumbnail. The harsh glare from the sulfur match revealed the youngster’s pale, hagga
rd face. He was a towhead, thirteen or fourteen years old.

  “I never saw him before,” Scratch said. “But that ain’t surprisin’, seein’ as how we ain’t been around these parts for very long. You know him, Bo?”

  Bo was carefully pulling aside the youngster’s shirt to check the wounds. “No, I don’t recognize him,” he said. Relief was evident in his voice as he went on. “Looks like the bullet just knocked a chunk out of his side. Probably hurts like blazes and he’s lost quite a bit of blood, but if we get him to the doc right away, I think he’ll be all right.”

  “Are you sure he was shot?” Scratch asked.

  “The best I can tell in this light.” Bo said. “Give me a hand with him, and then see if you can catch his horse. Might give us a clue as to who he is, although I’m betting somebody around here will know him.”

  With Scratch’s help, Bo lifted the limp form and cradled it in his arms. He started toward the doctor’s office, which he had visited a couple of times before to make the acquaintance of Dr. Edwin Summers and to check on the wounded prisoners who were still at the doc’s place. Scratch followed behind leading the boy’s horse. The mount had been too exhausted to even shy away as Scratch caught hold of the trailing reins.

  “Boy must’a been bound and determined to make it to town,” Scratch said. “He managed to hang on to the reins even after he passed out, so the horse’d keep on runnin’.”

  “Yeah. I hope the doc can bring him around so he can tell us what he was running from.”

  As far as Bo could tell, there had been no immediate pursuit behind the boy. The night remained quiet, now that the pounding hoofbeats were stilled.

  Of course, that didn’t really mean anything. Deadly danger was often quiet, like a water moccasin sunning itself on a creek bank, or a scorpion crawling in a man’s boot, or a bushwhacker clutching a rifle in his sweaty hands while he waited for a target to appear in his sights.

  Dr. Edwin Summers was waiting on the porch of his house when Bo and Scratch arrived with the wounded youngster. Rawhide was with him. Bo recalled that Rawhide had come up here to check on the injured gambler.