Wild Bill Williams (A Piccadilly Publishing Western #10)

by Jack Martin

  ‘It was Stantons who built this town,’ Henry said. ‘And Stantons who still run it. See, the sheriff there. One of them Stantons calls and he comes running. The whole town’s in fear of the Stantons.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, kid,’ the sheriff warned.

  Henry ignored the sheriff. ‘Everyone’s afraid to go against the Stantons. They own most of the land around here and that which they do not own they simply take when they get the fancy. They extort money from everyone around here. Insurance, they call it. Those that stand against them usually end up dead or vanished.’

  ‘I won’t tell you again,’ the sheriff said.

  The kid though was headstrong and ignored the lawman. ‘A few people have stood up to the Stantons, but they’ve either suffered some kind of accident or disappeared. The Stantons pretty much do what they want in this town.’

  ‘Oh well’s that just bloody marvelous,’ Bill grumbled and spirited the sheriff’s makings into his own pocket.

  Chapter Three

  ‘What are you taking us in here for,’ Bill protested, straining against the two deputies who manhandled him towards the saloon. The Welshman’s feet were shackled; the chain between the shackles less than a foot in length, and Bill found it difficult to walk without falling flat on his face.

  The sheriff, who himself supported a shackled Henry, nodded his head to a half built structure across the town square. ‘That there will be the new courthouse,’ he said. ‘Until it’s finished we use the saloon.’

  ‘New courthouse,’ Bill said. ‘Town’s surely on the up.’

  ‘Mr. Stanton’s paying for it to be built,’ the sheriff said with a smile. ‘Now come on let’s move.’

  ‘Bloody marvelous,’ Bill said as he was propelled forward and through the batwings.

  Once inside Bill found himself marched across the room and made to stand in front of the counter, Henry besides him. Most of the tables and stools had been stacked in the four corners of the room, while a large oak table had been placed dead centre. A distinguished looking man with thinning red hair and wearing a bifocal sat behind it. There were several chairs placed to the left of the table and all but one were occupied.

  ‘That’s the judge,’ Henry whispered nodding his head towards the man seated at the table.

  ‘That much I figured,’ Bill replied. He noticed that Caleb Stanton had a smirk spread across his face.

  ‘He’s Mr. Stanton the senior,’ the kid said. ‘His names Abaddon Stanton, but ain’t no one in town would address him by the familiar.’

  ‘Stanton as in Stanton?’

  ‘The same, it was he who built this town and it was his grandson I came to kill.’

  ‘I can see we’re going to get a fair trial,’ Bill moaned.

  ‘The others, that’s the jury. Two of them are Stantons too.’

  ‘Well, that’s just bloody marvelous.’ How many of these Stantons were there?

  ‘Silence in the court,’ the sheriff said and went and sat in the one vacant chair. His deputies went and stood each side of the two accused men. Bill noticed that their guns were worn butts facing outwards. These men were gunslingers.

  The judge looked down his nose at Bill and Henry and for several moments, during which time the saloon fell deathly silent, he didn’t say a word. He simply sat there regarding the two men that had been brought before him with some distaste. Finally, he steepled his fingers to his lips and closed his eyes for a moment.

  ‘The court is now in session,’ he said and then brought the gavel down on the desk with a loud bang.

  The sheriff stood and nodded to the judge before clearing his throat and speaking.

  ‘These men are here on separate charges,’ he said.

  ‘The younger man, one Henry Carthy faces charges of threatening behavior and attempted murder.’

  The judge nodded and gave Henry a stern look.

  ‘The older man,’ the sheriff continued. ‘One William Williams, a Welshman, is also charged with threatening behavior and also of being a transient which contravenes the town vagrancy laws.’

  The judge looked at Bill, running his eyes from head to toe and it was plain he didn’t like what he saw.

  ‘We’ll start with the lesser charges,’ he said. ‘William Williams, take one step forward.’

  Bill looked at Henry and then did so or at least he shuffled forward.

  ‘You are William Williams?’ the judge asked.

  ‘Aye,’

  ‘You say you are a Welshman,’

  ‘I am, indeed. And proud to be so.’

  ‘How do you plead?’ the judge asked.

  Bill gave the judge a curious look. ‘On which charge,’ he asked.

  ‘Threatening behavior will do for a start.’

  ‘Oh that,’ Bill smiled. ‘Not guilty and while we’re at it I’m not guilty of the other either.’

  The judge frowned and regarded the papers on the desk. ‘We have sworn witness statements that you pulled your gun and threatened one Caleb Stanton.’

  ‘I only stepped in to stop this kid being beaten to death by Stanton and that ape,’ Bill pointed to Caleb Stanton and his companion. ‘And I didn’t exactly threaten him, more prevented him from killing the kid with his bare hands. You could say, in fact, that I saved him from himself.’

  Again the judge regarded his papers.

  ‘This man,’ he looked at Henry and the dislike in his eyes was replaced by hatred. ‘This man attempted to kill Caleb Stanton and you defended him. Now do you make it a habit of defending killers?’

  ‘He didn’t kill no one,’ Bill said. ‘Only threatened to.’

  ‘He did more than threaten,’ the sheriff put in. ‘Shots were fired.’

  ‘Ah,’ Bill said. ‘But he didn’t hit anyone.’

  ‘Only because someone nudged his gun arm,’ the sheriff again injected.

  ‘You big gellwydog,’ Bill said. ‘He shot the floor. It was more a warning than anything else.’

  The sheriff looked startled. For one thing he didn’t know what the hell a, “gellwydog” was and for another he didn’t like the way the accused man was standing up to him. The strange Welshman knew that the judge was a Stanton and that two of his kinfolk were among the jury, and yet he was still determined to make a fight of it.

  ‘Silence,’ the judge snapped and when he next spoke it was directly to Bill. ‘If his hand wasn’t nudged then why did he shoot the floor?’

  ‘As a warning I expect,’

  ‘A warning for whom? A warning of what?’

  Bill was about to answer but he thought better of it and so he remained silent. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t incriminate the kid. He couldn’t very well tell the judge that Henry had been trying to provoke his grandson into a fight.

  ‘And did you then pull your gun, Mr. Williams?’ the judge, realizing he had the upper hand, asked.

  ‘I did,’ Bill answered, glumly and then added: ‘But I didn’t shoot it, mind.’

  ‘Why did you draw if not to shoot?’

  ‘I told you to stop these two men, one of which seems to be your grandson, from beating the younger and much smaller man to a pulp. Didn’t matter what the kid had done. He should have been taken to the jail to cool off and not beaten like a dog.’

  ‘You intended to shoot,’ the judge insisted.

  ‘I intended no such thing.’

  ‘Do you often pull your gun without the intention of shooting?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Bill said and then tried to think of such an instance. ‘When I’m cleaning it, maybe.’

  ‘Do you make a habit of cleaning your guns in a public saloon?’

  Bill frowned, thinking of an answer to that. ‘Well, he said, finally. ‘Strong spirits are good for polishing the barrel.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr. Williams,’ the judge said, changing tack. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘In the town hotel,’ Bill said. ‘I’m a working gambler. I travel about a lot but I’m not a vagrant. I have more than
enough money to support myself, I pay my bills wherever I go.’

  ‘A gambler,’ the judge seemed to spit the word out as if it left a foul taste. ‘Well I’d say you played a bad hand coming to this town.’

  ‘Only because the cards were stacked,’ Bill said, rather enjoying the analogy.

  ‘Guilty,’ the judge said, his tone furious.

  ‘What?’ Bill asked. ‘Isn’t that for the jury to decide?’

  ‘Guilty,’ the judge repeated. ‘You will be sentenced later. The other one, step forward.’

  ‘Guilty of what?’ Bill asked and one of the deputies slapped him across the back of the head.

  ‘The other man step forward,’ the judge boomed.

  Henry ignored the judge and the sheriff had to go and nudge him forward by gunpoint. Henry almost tripped over his shackles but the deputies kept him upright.

  ‘And how do you plead?’ the judge asked.

  Henry looked across at Caleb Stanton and sneered, ‘Guilty,’ he said. ‘And what’s more I’ll kill that son-of-a-bitch the first chance I get. I’m gonna’ send your grandson to Hell and there ain’t a thing you can do about it.’

  Bill shook his head. This may have been a kangaroo court but the kid could have at least made a play of explaining himself. Being headstrong and young seemed to go together.

  ‘Very well,’ the judge said, calmly. He regarded Henry with sheer undisguised hatred. ‘I will retire for a moment to consider and then I shall return and pass sentence.’ The judge stood and crossed the room towards the rear of the saloon.

  ‘Don’t rush on our account,’ Bill said which earned him yet another clip across the back of the skull from one of the deputies. He also received a threatening look from the judge before the old man disappeared through a door into another room.

  ‘Guess our goose is cooked,’ Henry said.

  ‘I thought it went rather well,’ Bill said and then added: ‘All Stantons considered.’

  Chapter Four

  Abaddon Stanton was furious with his grandson. The old man paced the room, puffing the large cigar as he went, sending a trail of smoke into the air.

  ‘How many times have I told you to keep things calm?’ the old man asked, knowing the answer himself and not really expecting one from his grandson. ‘I tell you, over and over and yet you still mess with one of their woman.’

  ‘I never touched no woman,’ Caleb protested.

  ‘Then why did the kid say you disrespected his mother?’

  ‘Beats me,’ Caleb said and meant it. He had no idea what the kid had been talking about. ‘The kid’s loco.’

  ‘Loco,’ the old man looked at his grandson. ‘Sometimes I think it’s you that’s loco. We’ve got to keep a quiet town. What happens if one of the townsfolk gets up the courage to call in outside law?’

  ‘They won’t,’ Caleb said. ‘Not if they know what’s good for them. And besides we can handle any Johnny-Law that tries to interfere with our town.’

  ‘You’ve had it too easy,’ the old man said and sat himself down in the firm backed chair besides the large fireplace. ‘You’ve been brought up in Stanton and had things your way for too long. But things are about to change and when the railroad comes through here this land is going to be worth a fortune.’

  ‘We own the deeds to most of the land,’ Caleb pointed out, still unable to see what the problem was.

  ‘We do,’ the old man said. ‘But until we’ve sold all that land, I’d rather not have a US Marshall looking into those deeds.’

  ‘We could handle any law,’ Caleb insisted.

  ‘Could we?’ the old man smiled wisely. ‘Times have changed. The frontier is shrinking by the hour and our kind of law is at odds with the law of the land.’

  The door opened and two more members of the Stanton clan entered. They were Dismas and Eder Stanton, and they both had a shock of red hair that was receding. They were in fact brothers, twins, and the old man lecturing Caleb was their father.

  The old man ignored them and leaned forward, looking directly into his grandson’s eyes. ‘A quiet town,’ he said. ‘Do you understand me?’

  Caleb nodded and stood, eager to be out of the room and away from his grandfather. He hoped that the entry of his two uncles meant that he would now be dismissed.

  It did.

  ‘Go,’ the old man said. ‘And try to stay away from trouble.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘A travesty is what it is,’ Bill complained, knowing that his words were falling on deaf ears but complaining anyway. ‘Call that a fair trial, a shameful show is what it was.’

  ‘You got off lightly,’ the sheriff said and continued to buckle his gun-belt. ‘Just think yourself fortunate.’

  ‘Fortunate,’ Bill spat the word out. ‘Oh aye, it is fortunate I am.’

  So fortunate, in fact that the sentence had gone thus: first the judge had asked to the extent of the monies owned by the gambler, the sheriff had then informed the court that the Welshman had been carrying two hundred dollars on his person and a further thousand in his carpetbag, and so the fine had been set at, ‘all that.’ Added to the monetary forfeit, Bill was ordered escorted out of town and told to stay out. If he ever returned to Stanton, the judge had warned, he would be facing a stiff prison term. Hard labor.

  Some fortune, thought Bill. Only yesterday morning he had been looking forward to few days gambling, and had a large stake to play with. And now not only had he been branded a vagrant, but he was once again without substance, on the hoof so to speak. Still it was relative, Bill supposed. He was after all fortunate in comparison to the kid, who was to be hung this coming Sunday. That Bill intended to notify the US Marshall’s at the earliest opportunity and stop the hanging was neither here nor there, for at the moment the kid was languishing in the jailhouse with only a rope and a short drop to look forward to.

  They couldn’t get away with this. The trial hadn’t even been legal, for one thing the judge should not have presided over the trial of a man charged with attempted murder of one his own kin, and the jury had been there for mere dressing and were not considered at all as to a verdict. In fact there hadn’t even been twelve jurors and although Bill only had a passing knowledge of the law, he did know that there should have been a dozen men both good and true. The silent jury at the trail had been made up of Stantons and several terrified townspeople.

  ‘What about my guns?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Deputies will hand them over at the town border,’ the sheriff said and handed Bill’s rig to one of the deputies.

  Bill looked at the two deputies, the same two who had guarded him during that farce of a trail. Neither of them seemed very talkative and Bill did so like to talk. Always had in fact. A bell in every tooth, his mum used to say, and would tell Bill that he had inherited the gift of the gab from his uncle Morgan, whom it was best not to talk about.

  Ahh well, Bill realized that he wasn’t going to learn anything about the Stantons, and their hold on the town from the two lawmen. Indeed, it would not have come as a surprise to the Welshman if one or both of the deputies turned out to be Stantons themselves. There seemed to be a lot of Stantons in Stanton.

  ‘Well then,’ Bill, smiled at the sheriff. ‘Then I think I’m ready to go.’

  ‘You horse is outside, already saddled,’ the sheriff said and then went to his desk, opened a drawer and returned with Bill’s now almost empty saddlebags. Before handing the bags over the sheriff removed their only contents, a ball of wool and two lethal looking needles. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s my knitting,’ Bill said and snatched it and the bags from the sheriff. He replaced the wool and knitting needles into the bag and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Shame I wasn’t staying around, longer,’ he said. ‘I could have made you a nice horse blanket. I make rather nice horse blankets.’

  ‘Get rid of him,’ the sheriff said to his deputies and went and sat behind his desk.

  Once Bill had been all but dragged from the jail
house, the sheriff placed his feet up on the desk, feeling the beginnings of a headache. He didn’t like this at all, wasn’t comfortable with what he was getting involved in. Old man Stanton was starting to punch above his weight and the sheriff was concerned that if the old man went down he would end up being dragged along with him. It was one thing delivering the odd beating to a homesteader, getting him to sign the deeds over to Stanton and then running him off the land, but already they had resorted to murder. And now they were going to murder the kid and use the law, or rather what they called the law to justify the hanging. The sheriff could clearly see things getting out of hand.

  He could understand them wanting the kid hung, he’d gone up against the Stanton’s authority and he had to be made an example of. There was far too much at stake to give folk the notion that the Stantons had gone soft. The last thing they wanted was for other aggrieved town members to start challenging their rule, refusing to pay their insurances. He could understand that. Didn’t much like it but it made some kind of sense. Why the Welshman had to be killed though was beyond him. He wouldn’t be coming back to Stanton so there seemed no point to the killing. Though, killed he would be – Abaddon Stanton had ordered it.

  Abaddon Stanton’s orders were usually obeyed.

  Chapter Six

  ‘That’s far enough,’

  Bill pulled his horse to a stop and turned in his saddle to look at the two lawmen who rode close behind him. For the entire journey neither of the men had said a word, other than telling him to shut up, which they did several times.

  ‘Is this it?’ he asked.

  ‘Dismount,’ the taller of the two deputies said and reached around behind him and slid a spade out from his saddle. He tossed it to the ground.

  Bill looked at the spade and then at each of the deputies in turn. This was pretty much what he had been expecting. ‘You want me to dig my own grave, is that it?’

  ‘Dismount,’ the deputy repeated and lifted his rifle, leveling it on Bill.

  Bill dismounted and patted his horse on the side of the head. ‘I won’t be too long,’ he said and went and picked up the spade. He looked at his surroundings for several moments, but made no effort to start on the digging.