Dooley rolled his eyes, but jerked open the drawer, grabbed the pearl-handled butt of the revolver, and dropped the heavy Smith & Wesson on the table. The gambler quickly picked it up and thumbed back the hammer, an evil grin stretching across his face as he aimed the giant barrel at Dooley’s chest.
Calmly, Dooley stood up and dropped six brass cartridges onto the desk. They rolled around, one fell back into the drawer, and the malicious grin faded, the .44 barrel lowered, and the gambler’s face went suddenly pale as Dooley drew his . . . loaded . . . pistol.
Dooley had a heart, so he didn’t coldcock the cardsharper again, but merely took the empty Smith & Wesson from him and marched him to the Jail Tree. He noticed that there was no horse and grip on the side street, and figured that served the gambler right. That sneaky little tinhorn would also have to pay for a hotel room he wouldn’t be using for the next two months. Dooley and the judge also decided it would be fitting to up the fine from $10 to $250, Leadville prices and all, and threatening a peace officer was a much more serious charge than carrying a weapon unlawfully. Especially since the judge also got a share of any fines levied and collected.
Dooley still owned a silver mine, but he figured he could live off his salary and percentage of fines pretty well, even in Leadville. It took a while for the residents and visitors to grow accustomed to the new firearms law, but Dooley had explained it fairly well to the mayor, the judge, the Committee of Concerned Citizens, the vigilance committee, and an assorted ragtag group of saloon bouncers, visiting gamblers, and one or two gunfighters who might have been wanted outside of Colorado but hadn’t committed anything wrong in the city.
“Listen,” Dooley had said, “I cowboyed a long time. I’ve been into quite a few cow towns and mining camps, and the thing is this: You can’t carry a gun in a town like Tombstone. You can’t carry a gun in Dodge City . . . at least not in the town proper. The red-light districts, the no-man’s-lands, the Nauchvilles and the Hell’s Half Acres, those might be different. But we don’t have those in Leadville. The best way to keep the peace is to keep guns where they belong. And that’s not strapped to a fellow drinking whiskey or playing poker or blackjack.”
So a stranger riding into Leadville wouldn’t be arrested, slapped with manacles, and chained to that infernal tree just because he rode into town. He could go to the hotel, where the clerk would explain the local ordinance, and the stranger could leave his pistol in the room. He could ride straight to the Silver Palace or any of the other hundreds of watering holes, and check his pistol and/or rifle with the bartender. Most folks in Leadville were honest, and they wouldn’t charge a stranger to hold a gun. This was the West, and Westerners were known for their hospitality.
They could even carry their guns to Dooley’s office, or drop them off at the gun shop next door upstairs and get them cleaned and oiled, have the trigger pulls tightened or loosened, get them resighted, and they’d be all ready and practically just like brand-new when they rode out of town.
Everybody seemed happy.
Except a few, and those were already chained to the tree with the tinhorn gambler, or they had paid their fines and left Leadville with strict instructions that they were not to return.
The roar of gunfire soon faded, and Leadville nights became known for the soothing sound of the rustling of tree limbs in the evening breeze, roulette wheels spinning, dancers doing their kicks, the howling of wolves in the mountains, and the whistles blowing at the various mines.
Still, Dooley had to change his ways. He slept late in the morning, because he had to patrol the streets at night. Most of the arrests he made were for drunks, and the majority of those stumbled along peacefully to the Jail Tree, where Dooley often didn’t even bother chaining them. He wrote them a ticket, stuffed it in the pocket of their jeans or vest or shirt, and knew they would be good for it. Come their next payday, they would head over to the judge’s chambers, a corner table in the Silver Palace Saloon or in the parlor at one of the more respectable brothels in town, and pay the fine. The judge, in turn, would give Dooley his share and the town treasurer the rest.
After three weeks, Leadville had lost a lot of its roughness. A theatrical troupe came to the opera house and performed three nights of various Shakespearean plays. A troubadour came and sang some songs. Dooley felt generous and turned loose the first gambler he had coldcocked and arrested, although he did not reduce the gent’s fine and he made sure the man paid his hotel bill, and then Dooley mounted General Grant and escorted the sharper out of town to see him off to Georgetown.
It was on the first month’s anniversary of Dooley’s new job, when this fat lady was planning on performing some opera songs at the actual opera house, that Dooley walked into his office on the second floor of the bank, removed his hat, and stared at the person sitting at his desk and petting Blue.
“Dooley,” Julia said, and Blue barked an excited yelp. Not to greet Dooley, of course, but to plead with Julia to keep scratching his ears.
Dooley glanced down the hallway, and shut the door. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
She looked wonderful, a million times better than the frightful girl Dooley remembered after she had just saved his life. That seemed like a billion years ago. She was dressed in a stunning evening gown, and Dooley figured she must have told that cad she was married to that she was bound to the opera house. Dooley figured a man like George Miller had no interest in listening to fat ladies belt out Italian or German songs that made no sense to him. They made no sense to Dooley, either, which is one reason Dooley had not paid for one of those two-dollar tickets.
“Jul . . .” Dooley stopped. “Miss . . .” He stopped again. “Missus . . .”
“Julia is fine, Dooley.” Julia smiled.
Dooley’s heart melted.
“Have you seen Butch?” Julia asked.
Shaking his head, Dooley tried to figure out what he should do. Sit down? Stand? Pace? Be still? Ask her if she wanted some coffee? Whiskey? He decided to expand on his head-shaking. “He’s on the stage, I imagine. Should be back tomorrow if the roads are all right.”
“Did you see him before he left?” she asked.
Dooley nodded. After changing his mind about Butch’s safety, he had given Butch a deputy marshal’s badge, told him that the badge would mean he could tote his shotgun or even pack a revolver when in town. It wasn’t that Dooley needed a deputy—yet—but he figured it might give Butch a chance. Boone and Miller, not to mention that bribe-taking deputy marshal from Denver, were still around, and likely not taking kindly to the fact that Butch Sweeney was a friend of Dooley’s and had saved his life. Besides, Butch’s stagecoach line had plenty of competition these days, and Dooley figured the fifty-dollar-a-month deputy marshal’s salary would come in handy. The town could afford it. Twenty-two folks were chained to the Jail Tree this very minute.
He said, “You look well.”
That caused her to stop petting and scratching Blue, who did not object, but curled up on his bed and stared at Dooley. His tail wagged a bit, then Blue closed his eyes. Smiling a sad smile, Julia said, “Better . . . I guess . . . than the last time.”
You damned fool, Dooley thought to himself. There you go up and reminding her of that dreadful, bloody day.
“You look well,” she told him.
An awkward silence filled the room. The regulator clock on Dooley’s wall chimed.
She rose, found her purse, and wet her lips.
“I need to go. I’m meeting some ladies to take in the performance tonight.”
Dooley nodded. “It should be a good show,” he told her. He had no clue, if the fat lady were famous or some charlatan, if she could sing. Hell, he didn’t even know if Julia liked opera. She certainly hadn’t been one to mention operas during those days in Arizona Territory a few years ago.
She held out a gloved hand. Dooley shook it, and then wondered if he was supposed to kiss it. Too late. He could smell Julia’s perfume, or soap, or something.
>
“You and Butch need to be careful, Dooley,” she whispered as Dooley opened the door for her and checked the hallway to make sure nobody was around. At this time of evening, no one would be around, but he wanted to be safe.
Dooley froze, and gave Julia a hard stare.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Stepping into the hallway, she answered. “I don’t know. But George is up to something. Watch yourself.” She kissed his cheek, which made Dooley wish he had shaved before heading over to do his marshaling this evening. He watched her hurry out the side door and disappear in the darkness as she turned to head down the stairs.
She left Dooley standing there, rubbing his cheek where she had kissed him, listening to Blue snore contentedly on his bed on the floor.
What, he thought once he had settled behind his desk, would George Miller be planning?
The next afternoon, at exactly 2:37 p.m., he found out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
He had just come back to his office above the bank, after a late dinner in which he had discussed the operations at his mine (actually, he had just agreed with everything the bookkeeper, Jarvis, had said). The butcher across the street had given Dooley some bones to bring to Blue, and that’s what Dooley was doing when the first shot rang out.
Squatting while teasing Blue with the steak bone, Dooley looked up, letting the shepherd take the bone and run off to the corner to do some serious gnawing. The gunfire was close, and it did not stop with just one shot. He rose to his feet, drew the .45, and spun the cylinder to check the loads. Then he grabbed the shotgun and walked to the door.
Blue showed no interest in the gunfire, Dooley’s leaving, or the sound of footsteps on the inside and outside staircases.
Closing the door behind him, Dooley stood in the hallway. The owner of the gun shop had stepped out of his door and stared wordlessly at Dooley. A grizzled miner whose eyes beamed brightly from John Barleycorn came through the staircase that led outside. A timid teller came up the inside stairs.
“There’s a feller shootin’ up yer sign,” the miner said.
“It’s not just any ‘feller,’” the clerk managed to choke out. “It’s . . .”
A gunshot roared outside.
“Hey, Marshal Do-Nothin’!” called a voice that even with the echoes of the pistol’s reports and the thickness of the bank building’s walls, Dooley recognized.
He thumbed back the hammers of the shotgun and walked toward the teller.
“Stay here,” he told the miner, hearing the door squeak as the old drunk pulled open the door. “All of you.”
Dooley came down the inside stairs, and all business stopped. That is, if any business was going on since the shooting started outside. A woman in a bonnet clutched the rosary beads hanging from her neck. A merchant wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. Other bank employees, and the bank president himself, merely stared in silence as Dooley came to the floor and moved toward the front door.
He repeated his order: “Stay here.” And thought of a new one: “Stay away from the windows.”
People began dropping to a crouch.
Dooley grabbed the knob with his free hand, opened the door, and stepped onto the boardwalk.
The street, which had been crowded just a few minutes earlier when Dooley had returned from his dinner, resembled a ghost town. The shades, naturally, to the county clerk’s office were pulled tight. Dooley stepped off the boardwalk and approached the sign he had erected in the center of the street. The man standing in front of the bullet-riddled sign reloaded his pistol.
He had made his shots count.
By Order of D**ley M*n*h*n, Leadville City Marshal.
Once the last bullet had slipped into the empty chamber, the man holstered his revolver and grinned at Dooley.
“I don’t like your sign,” Harley Boone said.
The gunman spread his legs apart, and his smile vanished as his right hand began hovering over the butt of the heavy revolver on his right hip.
So it was finally about to happen, Dooley thought, but he kept walking toward the ruined sign and the determined gunfighter. Something wasn’t right. Harley Boone kept smiling, unafraid. Dooley stopped forty feet from the killer, and Boone’s grin never wavered.
Dooley wet his lips. He held a shotgun filled with buckshot that would blow Harley Boone apart. Gunfighters had nerves of steel, sure, but this was ridiculous. Even if Harley could draw his pistol and put a bullet in Dooley’s gut, a touch on the triggers, or just one trigger, and Harley Boone’s remains would be scattered across Front Street.
The saying across the Western frontier went that God did not create all men equal—Colonel Samuel Colt did. But to Dooley’s way of thinking, the sawed-off shotgun was the true equalizer, and Dooley had two barrels of Damascus steel trained right on Harley Boone’s middle. Dooley had loaded the shotgun himself, with his own shells, and he had just cleaned the double-barrel so he knew it was loaded, and ready to fire.
Harley Boone never struck Dooley as the type of guy who wanted to kill himself, and, even if he had, most folks could pick a better way of doing themselves in, and a whole lot less messy, than catching twin barrels of double-ought buckshot at forty feet.
“You’re under arrest, Harley,” Dooley said, amazed that his voice didn’t choke on fear. “For destruction of city property.”
That stupid little grin flattened. Boone shook his head. His eyes narrowed. His fingers above the holstered piece twitched.
“I don’t think so.”
A door squeaked open behind him. The drunk miner, Dooley figured, stepping out to watch the show. Dooley wouldn’t be surprised if George Miller had raised the shades to watch this one. Still, Dooley couldn’t figure out what Harley Boone was trying to prove.
Then he saw it.
A man stepped out behind the alley down the street, bringing a rifle’s stock to his shoulder. Dooley had no chance of gunning that man down. He was too far out of range for the shotgun. Dooley started to swing the barrel in that direction anyway. The barrels went back to Boone. And Dooley dropped to a knee.
Keeping the shotgun in his right hand, he reached across his body with his left and tried to jerk the .45 from the holster. That was ridiculous, too, because while he might be able to hit a man—if incredibly lucky—at that distance, Dooley knew he’d likely just hit dirt or mud or his own foot shooting with his left hand.
He had the Colt out, started to thumb back the trigger, watched Harley Boone dive behind the sign. Bringing the pistol up, Dooley stopped. Something else caught his eye. A man on the roof of the store across from the bank. That man had a rifle, too. He fell backward, just as he noticed something peculiar about the first man he had spotted, the one down the street with the rifle.
The rifle was swinging up, not at Dooley, and not at the man on the roof.
That man seemed surprised, too, because his head jerked at the sight of the guy with the rifle, stepping onto the boardwalk. Then he swung the barrel down toward Dooley, just as Dooley touched one trigger on the shotgun.
The explosion roared, leaving Dooley’s ears ringing and his eyes burning with smoke. The kick of the gun also hurt. Despite the noise, Dooley heard the rifle down the street speak, and a man screamed behind Dooley.
Dooley came up, picking up the shotgun he had dropped from the savage kick—most men, he had learned, did not shoot shotguns charged with buckshot with one hand for a very good reason.
It was happening practically too fast for Dooley’s mind to register, but it seemed to go like this.
The man on the roof screamed, dropping his Winchester that fell through the new awning on the store to Dooley’s right. He grabbed his face, staggered back against the chimney, then stepped forward and toppled over the façade—there was that wonderful word again—falling heels over head and making a bigger hole in the awning and slamming atop the Winchester he had just dropped.
All this while, the man who had fired the rifle was running down the
boardwalk, working the lever, stopping and firing again. The man, Dooley suddenly realized, was Butch Sweeney.
The man Butch was shooting at was standing on the landing on the staircase that led from the outside of the bank to the second story where Dooley had his office, where Blue was likely still gnawing on the bone, and where the owner of the gun shop and the grizzled miner were likely still standing in the hallway, trying to summon up enough nerve to step outside.
No. No, that wasn’t right. Because the man on the landing was slamming against the door, closing it shut, blood spurting from his dingy shirt. He was dropping a revolver and trying to pull another pistol from his waistband in his back. But more blood erupted from his sternum, and he groaned and stepped forward, and then—just like the fellow Dooley had shot off the roof of the store—he cascaded over the railing and crashed hard and ugly on the ground.
Dooley got a good look at the man’s bearded face. He realized that it was the very same fellow who had come up the stairs to tell Dooley a man was shooting holes in this sign that proclaimed the carrying of firearms was illegal within the city limits of Leadville.
Butch kept running, levering the Winchester, and shooting down the street. Dooley started to turn, and shoot, too, but thought better of it. Because he saw the barrel of Harley Boone’s revolver poke around the sign he had shot up. Dooley grabbed the shotgun and touched the second trigger. The buckshot blew out the
are PROHIBITED
and the top of City below that.
The revolver barrel disappeared, and Dooley saw Harley Boone falling onto the street.
Another bullet zipped past Dooley’s ear, and he jumped to the ground. He left the empty shotgun in the dirt, but brought the Colt .45 to his right hand.
Butch was taking care of the men behind Dooley, leaving Harley Boone for Dooley himself.
Boone came up, found his revolver, and swung it to Dooley. The smile was gone, replaced by a mask of hatred, and grim determination.
Hang Him Twice Page 24
