by Len Levinson
In his room upstairs, he stuffed his belongings into his saddlebags. He picked up his rifle, looked around to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything, and spotted his razor lying next to the washbasin. Tossing it into the saddlebag, he left the room.
Jennifer was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “I hope you’ll be happy at Miss Elsie’s,” she said without a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
“It’ll only be for a month,” he replied, “and then I’m moving on. Thank you again for your hospitality. You and your father have been just wonderful, but sometimes a man likes to be on his own. I’m sure you understand. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get moving on. I’ve got a lot to do tonight.”
He dashed toward the door, and Esmeralda held it open for him. The cool night air hit him in the face as he made his way to the street, his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and his rifle in his right hand.
Jennifer stood by the window and watched him go. That’s what men are like, she said to herself. They always take the easy way.
She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, a troubled expression on her face. It bothered her to think that he was the only man who interested her, and he didn’t care about her at all.
She entered her bedroom and pinched her lips together in frustration. On the dresser in front of her was the book she’d been reading when Esmeralda had come to tell her that John Stone wanted to speak with her.
In a sudden angry motion she picked up the book and was going to throw it across the room, but caught herself, took a deep breath, and sat down.
“Damn!” she muttered, opening the book to the page she’d been reading before. “Damn!”
Chapter Six
The lights of Petie twinkled in the distance as Deke Casey and his men gathered on a hill west of town.
“We seen him and we know his routine pretty good,” Casey told them, unfolding a map he’d drawn of Petie. “All we have to do is ride into town and shoot the son of a bitch.” He pointed to the sheriff’s office, and moonlight cast dark shadows over his unshaven face as he spoke. “He works out of this buildin’ here and patrols the town back and forth, so he won’t be hard to find. We’ll just ride into town and track him down. When we find him, Schuler here’ll face off with him.”
“He didn’t look like much to me,” Schuler said contemptuously.
“We’ve all been around a long time,” Casey told them, “and we know that sometimes things don’t go the way we want. If Schuler don’t git Stone, then the rest of us’ll draw on him together, and we won’t stop shootin’ until he ain’t movin’ no more.”
“I’ll git him,” Schuler said. “Don’t you worry none about that.”
“After Stone’s dead,” Casey continued, “we’ll ride over to the bank, blow down the doors, and take the money. Then we’ll head south toward Mexico, and have us a good time with the senoritas. Any questions?”
Tom Hurley raised his hand. “It all sounds real good, but what if Rawlins horns in?”
Schuler spat into the dust beside him. “I’ll kill him too.”
Hurley grinned. “You’re full of piss and vinegar tonight, ain’t you?”
“You don’t think I can handle him?”
Casey held up his hand. “Let’s not argue, boys. Any other questions?”
Nobody raised his hand.
“We all know what we gotta do,” Casey said. “From here on out, keep yer eyes open and be ready for any thin’.”
Schuler quick-drew his pistol, and before anybody could blink it was pointing at them. “John Stone is as good as dead,” he said. “You fellers just stay out of my way, understand?”
They nodded solemnly. Schuler stuffed his pistol back into his holster.
Casey climbed to his feet and walked toward the horses. His men followed, their pistols loaded, their gunbelts loaded with cartridges, and more cartridges were carried in their bulging pockets. They climbed onto their saddles and Casey led the way down the trail that led to Petie, glowing far away in the midst of the vast black prairie.
John Stone stood in Miss Elsie’s backyard, his legs spread apart and his hat low over his eyes. He faced a row of bottles and cans propped on the fence twenty-five yards away, illuminated by light emanating from the rear windows of Miss Elsie’s kitchen.
He tensed, then whipped out both his Colts and pulled the triggers. The night exploded as the cartridges fired, and on the fence in the distance the bottles were smashed apart and the tin cans went flying into the air. Stone, in his gunfighter’s crouch, continued triggering his pistols until the bottles and cans were gone, and only a few shards of glass remained.
He holstered his Colts and turned back to the building. He’d been shooting bottles and cans for the past half hour and now his supply was depleted. Climbing the stairs, he entered the kitchen and saw Beatrice, Miss Elsie’s cook, pull a tray of cookies out of the oven.
“Want one?” she asked.
She flipped one off the tray, and he caught it in his hand. Winking, chewing, he passed through a hallway and opened a door.
This was the part of the building where Miss Elsie lived with Beatrice. It also contained storerooms for food, liquor, sheets, and blankets. He passed a stack of old newspapers, and then the light became feeble as he ascended the final flight of stairs to the attic. Stepping carefully, he came to the attic door and flung it open. A musty fragrance came to him, and he lit a match, touching it to the wick of the lamp on the dresser nearby.
The attic became bathed in the golden glow of the lamp, and Stone saw stacks of suitcases and old trunks jumbled together against a wall. Gowns, coats, and wraps hung from pegs on the walls, or overflowed out of boxes and crates, a profusion of gay colors and fabrics that once had graced the figures of beautiful ladies, and now were growing moldy and moth-eaten, forgotten vestiges of wild nights filled with laughter, whiskey, and naughtiness.
Chairs, tables, sofas, and beds with broken legs or cracked surfaces were stacked everywhere, and cheap old jewelry glittered faintly in boxes and baskets. Stone carried his lamp toward a wide brass bed set up at the far end of the attic next to a window that overlooked the backyard.
Stone placed the lamp on the dresser. He opened a drawer and pulled out a box of ammunition, reloading his pistols and pushing fresh cartridges into the slots in his gunbelts. Across the room, he could see his reflection in an old yellowing mirror, a tall figure with his face hidden by the shadow cast by his wide-brimmed cavalry hat.
It was time to go to work. He walked out of the attic and climbed down the stairs to the kitchen, where Beatrice was preparing a haunch of beef for the oven.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“A little.”
“Have a seat.”
Stone took off his hat and sat at the long table where the girls usually dined together, but now they were working in the front of the house, entertaining men. Beatrice was a hefty middle-aged woman wearing an apron and a long dress. She placed half a cold chicken in front of Stone, along with a bowl of potato salad and a loaf of bread. Then she brought him a pot of coffee and a cup.
He picked up the chicken in his hands and tore a chunk off it with his teeth, glad that he didn’t have to mind his manners, as in the Randlett home. If his mother had seen him eat with his hands, she’d smack him across his face, but times had changed and good table manners didn’t account for much on the frontier.
“How do you like yer room?” Beatrice asked, sprinkling the haunch of meat before her with salt.
“I like it fine.”
“A few of the girls have kinda mentioned to me that they wouldn’t mind keepin’ you company up there, if you’re interested.”
“Tell them I’m engaged to git married.”
The door opened and a young blond woman entered, wearing a pink dress with a low bodice. “I need some coffee,” she said, and then noticed Stone. “Well, look who’s here—our deputy sheriff.”
“That’s Veronica,” Beatrice said.
&
nbsp; Veronica poured herself a cup of coffee and sat opposite Stone. She had long blond hair and so much makeup on her face she looked like a painted doll. “How do you like living in a whorehouse?” she asked.
“Can’t beat the food.” “We’re famous for a lot of things here, but food ain’t one of them. Maybe you ought to try some of our other attractions.”
“Where you from, Veronica?”
“Mississippi.”
Stone took out the picture of Marie and showed it to her. “Ever see this woman?”
“This the one you’re supposed to be gittin’ married to, only nobody knows where she is?” Veronica wrinkled her brow as she looked at the picture. “She’s real purty, but I don’t think I ever seen her.”
Stone returned the picture to his shirt pocket. Veronica sipped her coffee. “God, I’m ready to go to sleep and the night ain’t even started yet. The house is full of crazy cowboys and I’m afraid they’re just gonna wear my poor old body out.”
The door to the kitchen opened and Miss Elsie walked in. “Get out in the parlor,” she said to Veronica. “It’s full of customers.”
Veronica frowned as she lifted her cup of coffee and moved toward the door.
“See you later, Deputy Stone,” she said. “Be careful where you put yer gun tonight, hear?”
Miss Elsie picked a cookie out of the bowl. “My girls have been in a tizzy ever since you moved in here, Deputy Stone. One of them’s liable to ambush you in the middle of the night when you’re on your way to the attic. What’re you going to do then, John Stone? Show her the picture of the girl you’re supposed to marry?”
“I’m sure your girls have better manners than to attack a man in the dark unawares.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you.”
Sheriff Rawlins sat on his bed, drinking a glass of whiskey. Rosie had gone to work, and he was alone. A lamp on the night-table next to the bed cast a wan light on his mustache and deeply lined face. He still was wondering what to do about John Stone.
He was pretty certain that Deke Casey and his men would try to kill John Stone that night. One part of him thought he should save John Stone’s life, and the other part said he should let John Stone die.
He was leaning toward the latter position, because he didn’t like John Stone one bit. If Stone thought he was good enough to be a lawman, let him take a lawman’s chances. It’d be a good thing for the people of Petie to see John Stone die. They’d realize he wasn’t the great hero that they’d imagined.
Rawlins thought it was sickening the way everybody in town was playing up to John Stone. Even Rosie spoke of him as if he was something special, and he was nothing more than another saddle bum who happened to get lucky one day. Women were wild about Stone, the way they’d been wild about him in the old days. Rawlins touched a hand to his stomach. He was getting a paunch, and didn’t like it. His face looked like a road map. He had a few gray hairs on his head. And John Stone was in the prime of youth, flat-stomached, clear-eyed, and strong. Rawlins grit his teeth in frustration. Everybody loved John Stone, and everybody was embarrassed by Buck Rawlins.
I’ll let them kill him, he thought. He raised his glass of whiskey to his lips and drank. Let him take care of his own ass, if he thinks he’s so goddamned smart. He lit a stogie, pulled off his boots, and lay flat on the bed, a smile on his face. He’d made his decision and now he could relax. Maybe he could even fall asleep. Later on they’d come and tell him some men had shot John Stone, and he’d go out and see Stone bleeding in the middle of a street somewheres. That’d be the end of a man who’d thought he was better than he really was.
Rawlins’s head was propped up by the pillow, and he puffed his stogie calmly. Facing him was a portrait of Bobby Lee hanging on the wall. The wick of the lamp flickered, making the features of Bobby Lee’s face move, as if he were alive. Bobby Lee seemed to be looking at Rawlins reproachfully, as if he disapproved of what Rawlins was doing. Bobby Lee shook his head and pursed his lips.
Rawlins recalled the rumors he’d heard about John Stone’s service in the war. Stone had fought in the cavalry under Jeb Stuart and had come out a captain. They said he’d seen a lot of action.
Rawlins had been in the war too, and also had been in many battles. From Georgia originally, he’d deeply believed in the Southern cause. He already was Sheriff of Petie when the war broke out, but he quit and went east to sign up, fighting Yankees for four long years. Then, when the war was over, he made his way back to Petie, and they’d gladly given him his old job back. A detachment of Confederate infantry had been stationed near the town during the war, and they’d provided protection, but they’d been gone for some time and the town was having problems with rowdies and gunfighters again. Rawlins quickly asserted himself and restored law and order.
But it wasn’t the same, because the war had embittered him. He began drinking more than usual to forget the horrors of frontline combat, and he had contempt for the men of the town who’d never gone to war. He considered them slackers and cowards and hated their guts, and never bothered to hide his feelings about them. They in turn became increasingly disenchanted with him, and his relations with the townspeople had been deteriorating steadily ever since he returned.
But John Stone hadn’t been a slacker or a coward, Rawlins had to admit to himself. Stone had fought for Bobby Lee and the Confederacy too, and they’d all gone down to crushing defeat at the hands of the Yankees.
Rawlins still got angry when he thought about the war. He’d loved the Old South, and now it was gone forever. He remembered Jeb Stuart, who’d been one of his heroes. He’d actually seen Jeb Stuart at Chancellorsville. Jeb Stuart had come to Stonewall Jackson’s headquarters, wearing his great plumed hat, and Rawlins had been in the vicinity. He’d cheered Jeb Stuart along with the rest of the men, and later Jeb Stuart’s cavalry had provided the screen for a roundabout twelve-mile march to the front by Stonewall Jackson’s artillery and infantry, of which Rawlins had been a member. That’d been in sixty-three, when Rawlins had been a sergeant, and they’d hit Joe Hooker’s right flank hard.
Rawlins remembered how he and the rest of Stonewall Jackson’s men charged through the woods on a two-mile-wide front, three divisions deep, screaming at the tops of their lungs, and the Yankees ran for their lives. Rawlins realized he and Stone evidently had been there at the same time.
He remembered how the battlefield had been covered with bodies afterward. The Yankees lost seventeen thousand men, and the Confederacy lost thirteen thousand in five days of fighting. Stonewall Jackson had been wounded, and died eight days later, but Chancellorsville had been a great victory for the Confederacy, and John Stone had been there.
In fact, during the shifting tides of battle, Jeb Stuart had taken command of Rawlins’s unit for a while, and they’d faced a Yankee force that outnumbered them three to one. It had been a bloodbath, but the Yankees, under John Sedgwick, finally retreated across the Rappahannock during the night, and the battle was substantially over.
Rawlins sat up in bed. He realized that Stone and he had served in the same sector, under the same commander, fighting the same fight! He recalled seeing Confederate cavalrymen charge John Sedgwick’s position, and John Stone might’ve been one of those cavalrymen. Since Stone had been an officer, he would’ve been in front leading the way. Rawlins recalled how brave those cavalry officers had been, and how dangerous it was to be in front of a cavalry charge, an easy target for Yankee sharpshooters.
In the confusion of battle, infantry and cavalry sometime had gotten intermingled. Rawlins realized he and Stone might’ve been in sight of each other during the fight, perhaps actually had even seen each other, although they didn’t know it.
Rawlins puffed his stogie nervously. The terror and thrill of the war came back to him. He recalled the charges and retreats, the hand-to-hand struggles with the Yankees, the explosions of artillery, his company commander shot in the head, and old Jeb Stuart urging them onward to the victory that was fin
ally theirs.
John Stone was there, Rawlins said to himself. He realized that he and Stone had been members of the brotherhood that fought shoulder to shoulder against the Yankees at Chancellorsville, and at least that time they’d prevailed. Rawlins and the other soldiers on the Confederate side had felt like great warriors, and now, sitting on his bed, Rawlins remembered how wonderful the taste of victory had been.
Stone had been there. Rawlins chewed on his stogie and frowned. He swung his feet to the floor and pulled on his boots. Strapping on his gunbelt, he reached for his shotgun, cracking it open and loading both barrels.
He didn’t like Stone much, but knew what he had to do. They’d fought together at Chancellorsville under Jeb Stuart and Bobby Lee, and by Christ they’d fight together again.
In a column of twos, the remaining members of the Deke Casey gang rode into Petie. They looked like a group of cowboys coming to have a good time, and nobody paid any special attention to them. Light from windows of saloons, restaurants, and private homes illuminated their faces as they passed the Petie Savings Bank, and they gazed at it with desire in their eyes. They knew it was full of money, and soon it’d all be theirs. Casey rode in front, with Schuler beside him. Schuler held his reins with one hand while resting the palm of his other hand on his thigh, sitting tall in his saddle, excited about the gunfight that lay ahead.
He had complete confidence in himself. Maybe the most famous gunfighters of the frontier were faster than he, but not John Stone, a two-bit deputy sheriff that nobody ever had heard of before.
Ahead was the Paradise Saloon, its bright light spilling onto groups of men having conversations on the sidewalk and in the street. The sound of the saloon’s piano could be heard clearly. Casey angled his head toward the Paradise, and his men followed him to the hitching rail. They dismounted, tied up their horses, and hitched up their gunbelts.
Casey turned to Schuler. “You ready?”
