by Len Levinson
The others nodded and grunted their assent. Stone felt as if he wasn’t getting through to them, but didn’t feel strong enough to continue arguing. He closed his eyes and let his head sink back into the pillow.
Dr. McGrath picked up his little black bag. “I think we’d better let Captain Stone get some rest,” he said. “You all can talk with him again in a few days when he’s better.”
They headed toward the stairs, and Stone opened one eye, watching them go. They don’t want to hear the truth, he thought.
Sheriff Rawlins sat at his desk, raising a glass of whiskey to his lips, and Abner Pritchard looked at him disapprovingly. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough for one day, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Rawlins was so drunk he couldn’t keep both his eyes open. When one eye opened, the other would close, and when that one opened, the first one closed.
“Who the hell you think you’re talkin’ to?” he asked thickly.
“I’m talking to you, Sheriff. I think you’ve had enough.”
“Who the hell cares what you think? Who told you that you know how to think? If I want any shit out of you, I’ll knock it out of you. Till then, keep yer damn mouth shut.”
“I’m just trying to tell you, Sheriff, that if there’s any trouble in this town, I don’t think you could handle it. Why, you can barely stand up.”
“What do you mean!” Rawlins roared. “You’re a goddamn liar!” To prove his point, Rawlins pushed back his chair and rose unsteadily to his feet. “There—you see? I can stand on my own two feet, so don’t you ever say I can’t, you little son of a bitch!”
Rawlins felt dizzy. He reached for the back of his chair to steady himself, then dropped back into it again.
“Why don’t you get the hell out of here,” he said to Pritchard. “Take the rest of the day off. You ain’t worth a fiddler’s fuck anyway.”
Pritchard took off his visor and put it in his top drawer. He piled the papers neatly on his desk and got to his feet. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you, Sheriff?”
“I just told you what you can do for me. You can get the hell out of here and leave me alone.”
Pritchard walked out of the office, and Rawlins filled up his glass again. His hand shook and the whiskey dribbled down his chin onto the desk.
He knew what was going on at Miss Elsie’s. A steady stream of visitors was going up to see John Stone. Everybody was talking about how John Stone outdrew Fritz Schuler, one of the fastest gunfighters around, supposedly. Everybody was so worried about John Stone’s health. John Stone wouldn’t have any health at all if it wasn’t for me.
Rawlins was furious with the citizens of Petie. As far as he was concerned, he was the one who’d subdued Deke Casey and his gang, but John Stone was getting all the credit.
Rawlins didn’t want to be a hero. He just wanted the simple recognition for what he’d done, but he couldn’t get it. Somehow everybody was dazzled by John Stone. They were always making such a big goddamn fuss over him.
Rawlins guzzled the glass of whiskey and poured another. He knew why everybody liked John Stone. Stone was young and good-looking, whereas Rawlins was old and said what was on his mind, and sometimes it didn’t come out right. He hated the self-righteous hypocrisy of the town’s leading citizens, and never tried to disguise his feelings, whereas Stone played up to those people like the two-faced bastard that he was.
I should’ve let them kill him, Rawlins thought, hoisting his glass of whiskey again. Then everybody would’ve seen what a fraud he was.
Toby Muldoon walked across the attic of Miss Elsie’s place, a goofy smile on his face. “Hello there, Cap’n,” he said. “How’re you doin’?”
Stone lay in bed, his head and upper body propped up on three plush pillows. He was alone; it was another busy night at Miss Elsie’s and all the girls were working downstairs.
“I’m feeling much better, Muldoon. Have a seat.”
The old alcoholic sat on a chair beside the bed, his dirty knees showing through holes in his pants.
“Glad you came to see me,” Stone said. “Wanted to thank you for helping me out last night. If it hadn’t been for you, that galoot might’ve shot me.”
“I was watchin’ them fellers,” Muldoon said in his cracked voice. “I knowed they was up to no good, so’s I follered ’em. When I saw ’em set you up, I says to meself: Toby, you got to do somethin’, so’s I hit the son of a bitch over the head with me old guitar. Now there’s one thing about that guitar that I want to tell you about. It might not’ve looked so hot, but it had a fine sound. You ever hear that old guitar of mine?”
“I always thought it sounded real good, Muldoon.”
“I knew you’d think that, because you’re an edjicated man and you appreciate a good tune. Well, I took me poor ole broked guitar to the pawnshop today to see if it could be fixed, and Jay Kearney, he’s the feller what runs the pawnshop, he says me old guitar caint be fixed. So don’t ’spect no more old cowboy tunes from me.”
“That’s no problem, Toby. We’ll just get you a new one.”
Toby held up his hand. “That’s all right, Cap’n. You don’t owe me nothin’. I’ll git along without a guitar. What the hell—it’s only a box with some strings attached.”
“Hand me my pants.”
Muldoon took Stone’s pants down from a peg and handed them to Stone, who pulled a double eagle out of a pocket and flipped it to Muldoon. “Take that and buy yourself a new guitar. You saved my life and it’s the least I can do.”
Muldoon caught the gold coin in midair. “Naw, I couldn’t take it.”
“If it’s not enough, tell Kearney I’ll make up the difference myself.”
“Could use a drink,” Muldoon said, gazing longingly at the bottle on the table.
“Help yourself.”
Muldoon reached for the bottle, raised it to his lips, and threw back his head, guzzling noisily, his eyes closed in ecstasy. Then he handed the bottle to Stone.
“Real good stuff you got there, Cap’n.”
Stone took a swallow and returned the bottle to the table. He was trying to maintain a mild state of euphoric inebriation so his shoulder wouldn’t hurt so much.
“Must be nice,” Muldoon said, “livin’ here with all them purty gals. Wish I could live here too, with all them purty gals.”
Stone reached into his pocket and handed Muldoon more coins. “I don’t suppose you can live here, but there’s no reason why you can’t pass some time.”
“Aw, I couldn’t do that, Cap’n, an old feller like me.”
Muldoon stared at the coins in his hand for a few seconds, blinking his eyes. “Well, maybe I could. Thanks fer every thin’, Cap’n, and I’ll see you when I see you.”
Muldoon adjusted his battered hat on his head and shuffled toward the stairs, reminding Stone of a spavined old warhorse who’d seen better days.
In the morning Mayor Randlett led a group of the town’s leading citizens across the street toward Sheriff Rawlins’s office.
“Captain Stone is right,” Mayor Randlett said to them. “Sheriff Rawlins deserves our thanks for his part in the shootout with Deke Casey’s gang. We’ve got to be fair, after all. Sheriff Rawlins is a difficult man at times, but his achievements as a law officer are first rate and quite considerable.”
The other council members nodded and muttered. They were dressed in their best clothes, and waved to other citizens as they approached the door to Sheriff Rawlins’s office.
“Let me do the talking,” Mayor Randlett told them. “Then each and every one of us’ll shake his hand, as we agreed at the meeting, and offer personal congratulations, understand?”
The council members agreed silently. None of them liked Rawlins, but John Stone’s defense of the old drunken sheriff had embarrassed and prodded them into making this visit.
Mayor Randlett paused in front of the door to the office. He straightened his suit jacket, took off his hat, and opened the door.
The office appeared
empty. Mayor Randlett poked his head in and looked around. “He isn’t here,” he said. “Maybe he’s home.” Then Mayor Randlett noticed a hand on the floor behind Sheriff Rawlins’s desk. “Uh-oh.”
He advanced into the office, and the council members followed him, holding their hats. The strong, sickly sweet odor of whiskey rose to their nostrils. They moved behind Sheriff Rawlins’s desk and looked down.
Sheriff Rawlins lay on the floor, out cold, an empty bottle of whiskey beside him. A wheezing sound escaped from his nostrils every time he breathed. The council members looked at Mayor Randlett, who shook his head in dismay.
“It’s a sorry sight,” he said.
The mayor and members of the town council turned around and filed out of the office, leaving Sheriff Rawlins snoring on the floor behind his desk, drooling out the corner of his mouth.
Chapter Eight
Centerville was a small scattering of shacks in the middle of the prairie about a hundred miles north of Petie. All activity centered around the rickety old general store, which also was the saloon, but there wasn’t much activity as a rule. A stagecoach might stop once in a while for supplies, or a wagon train might pass through, or a few cowboys could come in to buy some tobacco or a shirt, but most of the time Ben McDowell just sat around and stared out the window, as flies buzzed around his head.
Ben McDowell was seventy-one years old, with long white hair and a white mustache stained with nicotine. He placed cans of beans on a shelf, while an Indian in buckskin sat at the bar and drank a glass of whiskey. The Indian had been his only customer all day. He’d come to the store early in the morning, and now, shortly after noon, still was drinking steadily, occasionally mumbling something in his language.
McDowell heard hoofbeats on the street outside. He limped arthritically to the window and saw about thirty riders approaching the general store. They were a hard-looking bunch, dirty and unshaven, evidently cowboys moving a herd through the area and taking some time out for a drink. Looks like I’m gonna have a busy afternoon, McDowell thought as he moved behind the counter to greet the newcomers.
He heard them dismount outside, caught the sound of their voices as they talked among themselves. McDowell bent over and pulled bottles out of the crate, placing them on the bar.
The door was flung open, and the cowboys entered the general store, only now, at close range, they somehow didn’t look like cowboys. Cowboys were basically working men, but this bunch seemed mean and wild, and they looked around suspiciously. All were armed, and some carried knives in sheaths affixed to their belts. The one in front, who evidently was their leader, was tall and slim, with slitted eyes and a thick-lipped wide mouth.
“Howdy,” said McDowell with a smile. “What can I do for you gents.”
“Need some supplies,” the man with slitted eyes said.
“Just tell me what you want, and I’ll be happy to git it for you.”
“We’ll git it ourselves.”
The men moved toward the shelves, clearing off cans and stuffing them into gunny sacks. McDowell felt a chill come over him as he watched his store being plundered right before his eyes. One man scooped handfuls of coffee beans out of a barrel and dropped them into an empty flour sack.
The man with slitted eyes leaned his belly against the counter and looked McDowell in the eyes. “Got any money?”
“A little.”
“Where’s it at.”
“In the strongbox.”
“You’d better let me have it.”
McDowell reached under the counter and came up with the steel box, which he placed on the counter. The man with slitted eyes opened it and looked at the coins.
“This all you got?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re not hidin’ any back in them other rooms, are you?”
“No, sir.”
The man with slitted eyes turned to one of his men. “Go back and see if you can find any thin’.”
The man, who had a wide scar on his cheek, moved toward the back rooms. Their leader counted the money and grinned. “Ain’t much.”
“Don’t get many customers here.”
“I can see why.”
The men guffawed, and McDowell tried to smile. This wasn’t the first time he’d been held up. The only thing to do was cooperate, otherwise they’d shoot you dead. The nearest sheriff was three days away in Metcalf.
A few feet away the Indian sipped his whiskey as if nothing was happening. The leader of the gang noticed a newspaper lying on a chair. He walked over and picked it up. The headline said:
DEKE CASEY GANG SHOT IN PETIE
His eyes opened wide for a moment, then narrowed again to their customary slits as he read the story. The more he read, the cruder his features became. Then he tossed the newspaper to one of his men. “Hey, Clint—take a look at this.”
Clint, who had a squashed-down face, looked at the headline. “Shit—they got Casey!”
The man with slitted eyes turned to McDowell. “How far would you say Petie is from here?”
“About a week of ridin’.”
The man with the scar returned from the back rooms. “Couldn’t find no money.”
The man with the slitted eyes held the newspaper in his left hand and looked at McDowell. “Pay you back next time we pass by this way.”
McDowell nodded, trying to prevent his lips from trembling, and a few of the outlaws laughed. The man with slitted eyes pulled out his pistol, took quick aim at the back of the Indian, and pulled the trigger. The cartridge exploded out of the barrel, filling the store with gunsmoke, and the Indian got to his feet, a red hole in the back of his buckskin jacket. Raising his hands in the air, the Indian groaned and fell forward, landing on the floor, writhing. The man with slitted eyes took aim at his head and pulled the trigger, then dropped his pistol into its holster.
“Never did like injuns,” he said to McDowell.
The man with slitted eyes turned and walked toward the door, and his men followed him, carrying their bags of supplies. McDowell stood behind the counter, still trembling with fear and rage. When he couldn’t hear the hoofbeats of their horses anymore, he reached for one of the bottles on the counter and poured himself a drink.
“Wonder who that was,” he muttered.
Jennifer Randlett stood before her father in his office and straightened his bow tie.
“I hate to do this,” he said, a frown on his face.
“You’ve got to go through with it, Daddy,” she told him. “He’ll try to bully you, but you just hold your ground. You’ve got the entire council behind you and you simply must do what’s right for this town.”
“I know,” he said with a sigh, “but he’s been the sheriff here for so long.”
Jennifer took a step back and surveyed her father’s appearance. “The old days are gone, Daddy. These are the new days, and he’s not doing much for us anymore. For God’s sake, he’s been stinking drunk for the past ten days, unable to do his job most of the time, and Captain Stone is still laid up in bed. You’ve got to make Sheriff Rawlins understand that he should be more responsible. It’s time you and the others stood up to him.” Jennifer handed her father his derby. “Now go over there and tell Sheriff Rawlins who’s running this town.”
Mayor Randlett took the hat and put it on his head. He kissed his daughter’s forehead and left his office, crossing the street, heading toward the building where the town council met.
He wasn’t anxious to confront Sheriff Rawlins, but knew it had to be done. Sheriff Rawlins had been unfit for duty ever since the shootout with the Deke Casey gang, and the town was virtually unprotected. Cowboys had been getting increasingly rambunctious, fighting in saloons, firing their pistols in the air. No one had been killed yet, but it was only a matter of time before something serious happened. The town council had agreed to take a firm hand with Sheriff Rawlins, and Mayor Randlett had to deliver the message.
Citizens said hello to him solemnly, and he tipped his hat. T
he whole town was tense. Everybody felt afraid. The celebration over the shootout with the Deke Casey gang had turned into a massive letdown as everyone came to realize that they were without an effective lawman.
Mayor Randlett came to a sign that said:
TOWN HALL
(upstairs)
He climbed the stairway attached to the outside of the building that also housed the Petie Savings Bank, and it was another of his real-estate holdings. He opened the door at the top and entered the town hall, a small room with a large American flag nailed to the wall. The other members of the town council sat around a long table.
“Glad to see you, Mayor,” said Phineas Mathers, owner of the Double M Ranch.
Mayor Randlett nodded to him and took out his pocket watch. Sheriff Rawlins was scheduled to show up in five minutes. The atmosphere in the hall was strained. No one was looking forward to the confrontation with Sheriff Rawlins.
“Hope he’ll be sober for a change,” said Clyde Akerson, manager of the Petie Savings Bank.
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” replied the Reverend Vernon Scobie, a sour expression on his face.
“Here he comes,” said Martin Caldwell, proprietor of Caldwell’s General Store, who was standing next to the window and looking down at the street.
Mayor Randlett took his seat at the middle of the table. He leaned back in the chair and sipped a glass of water. Caldwell returned to his chair also. They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs attached to the building. The footsteps were heavy and made the building shake slightly. The members of the town council shifted uneasily in their chairs. All were scared to death of Sheriff Rawlins.
The door opened and Sheriff Rawlins stood in front of them, his face flushed, his clothing rumpled, and his tin badge pinned to his lapel. An expression of contempt and malevolence was on his face as he advanced toward the table where the town council sat. The air was so thick it could be cut with an axe.
Mayor Randlett tried to smile. “Hello, Sheriff Rawlins—glad you could come.” He gestured toward the chairs scattered in front of the table for the comfort of those who brought business or testified before the town council.
