by Len Levinson
“She’s comin’ around,” said the blonde.
Stone turned and advanced toward the bed. Dottie’s eyes were half opened, and the blonde held her hand.
Dottie’s throat was discolored where the man had tried to strangle her, and her naked body was gawky and pale.
“Stay with her,” Stone said to the blonde. “I’ll get a doctor.”
“You’re not gonna leave me here with him, are you?”
“He’s dead.”
“I don’t care what he is. I don’t want to be in the same room as him.”
Stone grabbed the dead man by his pant leg and dragged him out of the room, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He pulled him across the hallway and down the stairs to the main living room, then out to the veranda of the building, letting him go. The body lay sprawled on the veranda as Stone descended the steps to the street and walked back toward the center of town.
The crowd moved up the street toward him, and Miss Elsie Moran was in front, with Lester Duboff at her side.
“What happened?” she asked.
“He’s dead, and Dottie’s not in very good condition. Where can I find a doctor?”
Miss Elsie turned to Duboff. “Get Dr. McGrath!”
Duboff ran back to town. The crowd circled around Stone, looking up at him.
“How’s Mae?” asked Miss Elsie.
“She’s taking care of Dottie. Maybe you’d better go back and help her.”
Stone pushed through the crowd, which had grown considerably larger as citizens from all over the town were drawn to the excitement. The onlookers moved aside to let Stone pass, gazing at him in silence and morbid fascination.
He returned to the center of town, entering the sheriff’s office. Lighting the lamp, he rolled a cigarette and sat at Pritchard’s desk, inhaling the strong smoke. His hands were steady and he felt calm; it wasn’t the first time he’d killed somebody.
Something was bothering him, and he couldn’t remember exactly what it was. He still was a little off balance from what had happened at Miss Elsie’s place. It was like a song with a wrong note in it, or a puzzle with a piece missing.
Then he remembered the big man with the tattoo on his arm, standing behind him at the Acme Saloon. Stone had turned around and seen the man poised, staring at him with an expression of hatred on his face. Stone’s first impression was that the man had been about to shoot him in the back.
Stone realized that he’d have to be more careful, and always keep his back to the wall. He’d been on the frontier long enough to know that many trigger-happy maniacs were wandering around, trying to make reputations for themselves by shooting famous gunfighters and lawmen. Before becoming deputy sheriff, Stone had been just another face in the crowd. Nobody had paid much attention to him, but now he wore a tin badge and attracted attention. He’d have to watch out for the man with the tattoo and other men with guns who might want to shoot him.
I need a drink, he thought. He poked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and stood, blowing out the lamp. Leaving the sheriff’s office, he stepped onto the boardwalk and looked around cautiously.
No one was in the immediate area. He locked the door of the sheriff’s office and walked toward the Paradise Saloon, his boots clomping on the wooden planks and his spurs jangling. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Mortimer all day. He’d have to go to the stable later and find out how he was.
Stone came to the Paradise Saloon, its light spilling into the street from its windows. Men sat out in front, and some stood on the boardwalk, talking with each other.
They looked up as Stone approached, and he searched among them quickly for the man with the tattoo on his arm, but he wasn’t there. Stone pushed open the doors and entered the saloon, stepping out of the doorway into the shadows, his eyes scanning back and forth. When he was satisfied that the man with the tattoo wasn’t in sight, he walked toward the bar.
People looked at him curiously; word had gotten around about the shootout at Miss Elsie’s.
He stepped up to the bar and placed his foot on the brass rail. The bartender wore a dirty apron and had combed his black stringy hair over his bald spot.
“Whiskey,” said Stone.
The bartender placed a glass and a bottle in front of him. Stone poured some whiskey into the glass and drank it down. Then he remembered that his back was to the door, and turned around suddenly.
Nobody was behind him, ready to draw a pistol. All he saw were the usual gamblers and drinkers. A few looked at him, and one pointed at him while murmuring to someone else. Stone rolled another cigarette and lit it, then he poured himself more whiskey. He raised the glass to his lips and let the warm amber liquid roll over his tongue and down his throat.
No wonder Rawlins is a drunk, he thought. I’d probably be one too if I were a lawman for as long as he.
On the prairie about three miles out of town, Mike Chopak and Fred Ramsay rode side by side, heading back to Deke Casey’s outlaw camp. A full moon hung near the mountains on the horizon, and the Milky Way blazed across the sky.
“I almost had him,” growled Chopak. “Another second and he would’ve been dead meat. If only that shit didn’t break out. I couldn’t’ve missed.” Chopak grit his teeth, reliving the moment. “I almost had the son of a bitch. He was there for me.”
Chopak fell silent, brooding over his lost opportunity.
“Don’t take it so hard,” Ramsay told him. “It was a bad break. We’ll get him some other way, don’t you worry about it.”
“I wanted him for myself.”
“You’re gittin’ yourself all worked up over nothin’.”
“I don’t like John Stone. There’s something about him that pisses me off.”
Chopak ground his teeth together and was itchy all over. John Stone had killed eight members of the gang and everybody in Petie treated him like God. Chopak pulled back on the reins of his horse, and the horse came to a stop.
“What’s the matter?” Ramsay asked.
“I’m goin’ back.”
“You’re crazy! He knows who you are!”
“He won’t see me this time. You don’t haveta come with me if you don’t wanna. I’ll handle him myself.”
Ramsay shrugged. “I ain’t gonna argue with you, Chopak. Do what you wanna. I’m goin’ back to camp.”
Ramsay put the spurs to his horse, which ambled forward, leaving Chopak behind. Chopak wheeled his horse around and headed back toward Petie, whose lights glowed in the distance.
A faint smile creased Chopak’s bearded face. He thought of John Stone lying in the dust, a bullet in his back. “This time I’ll git you,” Chopak muttered. “This time you won’t git away.”
Stone finished his drink and placed the glass on the bar. He thought he shouldn’t have another one, because he was on duty.
He leaned his back against the bar and looked at the other customers, and they were the usual bunch of cowboys on a spree, businessmen talking over deals, card sharps trying to win their pots by hook or crook, and solitary drinkers muttering to themselves, disheveled and forlorn.
The doors of the saloon were pushed open, and Sheriff Rawlins stepped inside. He wore his long black frock coat that nearly reached his knees, his black hat, and his badge on the lapel of his coat. Sheriff Rawlins stopped, looked around, and his eyes fell on Stone. He frowned, then walked to the other end of the bar. His gait was steady and sure, but his face was flushed and Stone suspected he was drunk.
“Whiskey!” Rawlins called out loudly.
Stone rolled a cigarette. He heard a bottle and a glass being placed on the end of the bar in front of Rawlins.
“I can see,” Rawlins said in his deep booming voice, “that the town hero is in here tonight. Well, I feel real proud to be here. Maybe I ought to take a walk down the bar there and kiss his ass just like everybody else in this mealy-mouthed goddamn town.”
The music stopped and a hush fell over the saloon. Stone scraped his match over the top of t
he bar and lit his cigarette. The men between Rawlins and Stone got out of the way, carrying their drinks.
Rawlins turned to the side and faced Stone, who still leaned his back against the bar.
“What’s it feel like to be the town hero, Deputy?” Rawlins asked, a sarcastic tang in his voice.
Stone turned and looked at Rawlins, who stood casually with his elbow resting against the bar and one foot slightly in front of the other. A strange uneasy smile was on Rawlins’s face.
“I believe I just asked you a question, Deputy,” Rawlins said.
Their eyes met, and Stone saw a ruined man. Stone couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, and couldn’t bring himself to respond with an insult.
Instead he headed for the doors, and after a few steps it occurred to him that he was committing the worst insult of all, because he was ignoring Rawlins.
“Hey—goddamn you!” Rawlins shouted.
Stone continued to walk toward the doors. He pushed them open and stepped onto the boardwalk, leaving Rawlins alone at the bar.
Rawlins was so angry his ears had turned red. He’d expected to humiliate Stone in front of the other patrons, but Stone had just walked away and made him appear foolish. Rawlins looked around and spotted Thad Cooper, a local lawyer and member of the town council, seated at the table nearest him.
“What the hell’re you laughin’ at, Cooper!”
“I wasn’t laughing at anything, Sheriff.”
“Don’t you goddamn laugh at me!”
Rawlins walked toward Cooper, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and lifted him off the chair. Cooper went pale, and his lips quivered as Rawlins raised him into the air, bringing his face so close Cooper could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“I never liked you,” Rawlins said. “I always thought you was a spineless son of a bitch. Don’t you ever laugh at me again.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you, Sheriff.”
Rawlins narrowed his eyes. “Are you callin’ me a liar?”
Cooper shook his head. “No, Sheriff,” he stuttered.
“You better not, because I’d kick yer ass as soon as look at you.”
Sheriff Rawlins threw Cooper across the room, and Cooper stumbled backward, landing on the table in back of him, scattering the chips and cards lying upon it, startling the gamblers. Rawlins returned to the bar, reached for his glass, and dumped its contents down his throat.
“Goddamn cheap politicians,” he said. “Wouldn’t know a bull’s ass from a banjo.”
Mike Chopak tethered his horse to a tree on the outskirts of town. He dismounted, pulled his rifle out of its boot, and ducked into the shadows.
It was silent and not a light was on in any of the buildings around him. He moved through the back alleys of Petie, skirting the edges of buildings, always staying in the darkness. If he heard a sound he froze until he was sure he could move without being observed.
He made his way toward the sheriff’s office, and finally crept down the alley that led to the segment of the street where it was located. He gazed across the street to the sheriff’s office and saw the darkened windows, wondering whether Stone was asleep inside or out someplace in the town.
He knew he couldn’t just barge into the sheriff’s office and start shooting, because he wouldn’t be able to see what he was shooting at. He’d have to be smarter than that and position himself in a place where he could bushwhack Stone when Stone either came out of the office or went into it.
Where’s a good place? Chopak asked himself. Obviously it was somewhere across the street. Chopak poked his head out of the alley again and looked left and right. Nobody was around. He moved onto the boardwalk and walked toward the sheriff’s office, looking for possible places to hide.
He came to the building across the street from the sheriff’s office, and it was a ladies dress shop closed for the night. Advancing toward the door, he turned the knob, but it was locked just as he expected. Taking his jackknife out of his pocket, he inserted it in the crack between the door and the frame, but couldn’t jimmy it open.
“Shit,” he muttered, closing the jackknife and dropping it into his pocket. It would’ve been an ideal spot for an ambush. Then he had an idea. Maybe I can get up on the roof. It was a two-story building, and probably had a set of stairs on the outside in back. He slunk into the alley and walked to the rear of the building.
The full moon shone overhead, and Chopak saw the stairway leading up to the second floor. He figured the people who owned the store probably lived up there, or rented it to someone else. Either way, he could assume that people were sleeping on the top floor, and he had to be silent.
He climbed the stairs on his tiptoes, holding on to the banister for support. When he reached the second floor he saw a ladder affixed to the building and extending to the roof, so the roof and chimney would be accessible for repair.
He climbed the ladder and crawled onto the roof, lifting his arms and legs high and bringing them down softly on the wood shingles, so he’d make no sound. Finally he came to the peak. Removing his hat and placing it beside him, he raised his head slowly until he could see the sheriff’s office across the street.
It was a perfect view, and he congratulated himself for being so smart. Now all he had to do was make himself as comfortable as possible and wait for John Stone. The son of a bitch is as good as dead, he thought, bringing his rifle closer, aiming down the barrel at the front door.
The full moon illuminated the sidewalk clearly, and it would be an easy shot. At this distance, I can’t miss, he said to himself.
Stone walked into the dark stable and smelled the strong aroma of horses. They were lined up in two rows of stalls on either side of him, and some of them shuffled their hooves as he passed by.
“Who’s there?” asked a voice.
“Deputy Sheriff John Stone.”
A man with a walrus mustache came out of the shadows, holding a rifle in his hands, looking at Stone suspiciously. “Lookin’ for yer horse?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s over there.”
The man pointed, and Stone moved in that direction, passing horse after horse until he heard a familiar snort.
“Mortimer,” Stone said.
The big black animal turned his head around and looked at him. Stone stepped into the stall and patted his mane. Mortimer made a funny motion with his lips, and his eyes were huge and gleaming.
“I haven’t forgotten you,” Stone said, scratching Mortimer’s neck. “I’ve been busy, you see. Figured you needed some rest anyway. We were on the trail together for a long time, weren’t we? Maybe tomorrow or the next day we can go someplace.”
Mortimer whinnied and shook his head from side to side. Stone took a step back and admired him. He was a fabulous animal, fleet as the wind, with incredible endurance. A rancher had given Mortimer to Stone, and Mortimer was said to have been the fastest horse in that county.
“Are they treating you all right?” Stone asked. “Getting enough to eat?”
Stone stood beside the horse, patting him and murmuring softly. Stone’s father had owned a stable of fine horses back in South Carolina before the war, and Stone had ridden great animals during the war, but none was better than Mortimer.
“Sorry to wake you up,” Stone said. “Just wanted to see how you were. I’ll be back tomorrow, maybe bring you a little present. Take it easy, now.”
Stone gave Mortimer one last pat and walked out of the stall, heading for the street. He turned toward the sheriff’s office, planning to lie down on the cot and sleep for an hour. If he was lucky, nobody would bother him.
The town was deserted and still. The only sound came from his boots as they landed on the boardwalk, and the light of the full moon threw long ghostly shadows into the middle of the street. A few men were passed out on the bench in front of the Acme Saloon, and light glowed from the interior of the establishment. He thought he ought to go in and see what was going on, but decided not to look for trou
ble. He just wanted to get some rest.
He came to the Paradise Saloon. Two men were having an argument in front of it, but they were so drunk they were unintelligible. The piano was being played inside, and a man laughed raucously. The doors swung open and two men staggered out, their arms around each other’s shoulders, singing off-key.
Stone continued on his way to the sheriff’s office. He passed a drunk lying unconscious in the gutter, and a big gray rat scurried in front of Stone, diving under the boardwalk.
Stone’s legs felt leaden, and he had a mild backache. All he wanted to do was to go to sleep. He couldn’t wait to lie down on the cot and close his eyes.
On the roof across the street, Mike Chopak watched his every move. Here he comes, thought Chopak, raising the butt of his rifle to his shoulder. This is it.
Chopak closed one eye and lined up the sights of his rifle on the middle of Stone’s torso. Stone stopped in front of the door to the sheriff’s office and looked both ways, then reached into his pocket for the keys. Chopak pasted his sights on the middle of Stone’s back and squeezed the trigger.
Stone pulled the keys out of his pocket and inserted them in the lock. The window on the door showed the reflection of the building behind him, and he saw something move on the roof. It looked like a man’s head, and Stone dived to the ground.
On his way down, he heard a gunshot, and the glass above his head shattered. He pulled out both his Colts and, lying on his stomach, leveled a barrage of bullets at the man on the roof across the street. The man ducked his head, and Stone jumped to his feet, charging across the street and running into the alley.
Chopak realized he’d missed. Gritting his teeth and cursing himself, he knew he had to get out of there. He clambered down the steep slope of shingles toward the ladder.
Meanwhile, Stone was speeding through the alley, a Colt in each hand. He ran into the backyard and spun around, looking up at the roof, and saw a man with a rifle moving toward a ladder affixed to the side of the building.
