Wild Bill Williams (A Piccadilly Publishing Western #10)

by Jack Martin

  ‘Well I was. And I’m still here.’

  ‘There were no survivors of the Little Big Horn,’ the old man said, grinning. This Welshman sure was a one for these fish tales.

  ‘That’s what they say,’ Bill agreed.

  The old man looked at Bill, unsure what to make of this man.

  ‘Well come on then,’ Bill said, presently. ‘Let’s go and wake the sheriff.’

  Once again Bill found himself crossing Main Street. It was now several hours beyond midnight and the entire town had fallen silent. He walked, the old man beside him, with great caution. His hands swung casually at his sides but this belied the fact that he was ready to go for his guns in a second should the need arise. Thankfully there was no such need and they reached the jailhouse without incident.

  ‘You get the man out here,’ Bill said and stood to the side of the door, his back against the wall and a Colt in hand. He wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to pull the same trick on the sheriff that he’d used on the newspaperman. The sheriff’s deputies would surely have been missed by now which would have at least put the sheriff on guard.

  The old man nodded and walked up to the heavy door. He was just about to rap upon it when he had an idea. He reached out and grasped the door handle, twisted it gently and sure enough the door swung open.

  The old man looked at Bill, shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Guess the sheriff feels safe enough not to lock the door,’ the old man whispered.

  ‘Bloody marvelous,’ Bill said and quietly stepped into the jailhouse. He motioned for the old man to follow and then gently closed the door behind them. They stood there for a moment while their eyes grew acclimatized to the gloom. They could hear snoring, the sheriff most likely, coming from the back of the building.

  ‘Looks like we caught him napping,’ Bill whispered.

  The two men moved through the jailhouse, heading towards the rear of the building where the sheriff’s snoring seem to be originating from. They froze when the old man bumped against the side of a desk. The muffled retort sounded to both men like thunder.

  ‘Be careful,’ Bill whispered.

  ‘Can’t see a darn thing,’ the old man grumbled back.

  ‘Well get behind me,’ Bill said. ‘Shadow my steps.’

  ‘Need some light to make a shadow,’ the old man grumbled and fell in directly behind the Welshman.

  They made the back of the room without further incident and were presented with another door. Bill opened it, lifting the handle as he pushed inwards. The door creaked once but only briefly and Bill and the old man stepped through the door and saw the sleeping form of the sheriff. Bill looked around and through the dimness he could see the doorway that led through to the cells, where only yesterday he had been nursing a battered head.

  So much had happened since then.

  Two men had died since then.

  The sheriff had constructed a hammock in the corner of the office and somehow he had gotten his bulk into it. It was secured to a beam at one end and to a hook that had been driven into the wall at the other. The canvas strained with the lawman’s considerable weight.

  The sheriff, unaware of his two visitors, slept soundly.

  Bill pointed to a shotgun that was leaning against the wall and the old man understood the gesture and went and got the rifle. Bill took a look around, peering into the darkness and he noticed the sheriff wasn’t wearing his gun-belt. The old man spotted it hanging on a nail in the wall behind the sheriff. He pointed it out to Bill and then carefully went and took it down.

  The sheriff was unharmed and now had no chance of getting to his weapons. This was good because Bill didn’t want any shooting if he could help it. The sound of gunfire would bring too many people running.

  ‘Stand back,’ Bill said to the old man and then brought a leg up under the hammock and kicked out, toppling it. The sheriff came awake instantly, his eyes snapping open, startled, confused. Bill kicked again, sending the lawman falling to the floor with a dull thud, which drove all the wind from his body.

  ‘Really shouldn’t sleep on the job, sheriff,’ Bill said, pointed his Colt directly at the lawman’s head. ‘Now get up.’

  The sheriff was unable to immediately oblige. All the wind had been driven from his body in the fall and he struggled to catch his breath. Added to that he was a big man who didn’t find it easy getting to his feet at the best of times.

  ‘What’s happening out there?’ the kid’s voice came from behind the large door that led to the cells. There was fear in the kid’s tone. He was probably thinking the noise meant a lynch mob arranged by Stanton had come for him.

  ‘Quiet, kid,’ Bill answered. ‘We’ll have you out of there in a moment.’

  ‘Bill? Is that you?’

  ‘It’s me, kid. Now quit jawing,’ Bill said and looked back down at the lawman. ‘Now get that lard-arse up.’

  ‘Come on fat man,’ the old man said, clearly relishing the situation. ‘You can move quicker than that. I’ve seen you jump when Stanton calls.’

  The sheriff had recovered enough to take stock of the situation and he looked up at the two men holding weapons on him.

  ‘Where’s my men?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean your deputies,’ Bill said. ‘They won’t be gunning anyone down anytime soon. Now I won’t tell you again. Get up.’

  Awkwardly the sheriff managed to get to his feet. He stood there, panting, spittle in the corner of his mouth and looked directly at the old man. He was unaware of his ridiculous he looked standing there in his underwear.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake, Sam,’ he said. It was obviously meant as a threat but the sheriff didn’t seem to be in any position to threaten anyone at the moment.

  ‘Shut up,’ Bill snapped. ‘Get the keys. Release the kid.’

  ‘What are you planning to do?’

  ‘Get the keys,’ Bill insisted and prodded the sheriff’s fat belly with the eye of his Colt.

  The sheriff stood his ground, though. ‘Where are my deputies?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re dead,’ Bill said. ‘And unless you want to be joining them you’d better spring the kid.’

  ‘You won’t get away with this,’ the sheriff said and again cast a glance at the old man. ‘You can’t go around killing officers of the law. You’ll swing for this. Both of you.’

  ‘They intended on killing me,’ Bill snapped back.’ Law ain’t supposed to go around killing people.’

  ‘You won’t get away with this,’ the sheriff insisted.

  ‘I will not tell you again, boyo,’ Bill said and leveled the Colt so that it pointed directly between the lawman’s eyes.

  His finger tensed on the trigger.

  The sheriff went to his desk and took the set of heavy keys from his drawer.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘So what happens now?’ the old man asked. The kid was free, the sheriff was slumped in his chair, looking like the sorriest critter that ever walked the earth, and it suddenly occurred to the old man that he didn’t have the faintest idea where they were going to go from here. He knew some sort of line had been crossed but he wasn’t at all sure what that meant.

  ‘What time do you figure it is?’ Bill asked and then noticed the sheriff’s chain hanging from his waistcoat. He pushed the barrel of the Colt beneath the chain and lifted, pulling the lawman’s timepiece from his pocket. ‘Three. Figure we’ve maybe a hour or two before dawn.’

  ‘You’re all going to hang for this,’ the sheriff said and looked at the old man who was holding the shotgun aimed square at his stomach.

  ‘You best start riding sheriff?’ Bill said.

  Neither the old man nor the kid said anything, but they both shot questions at Bill with their eyes. Bill smiled at them and then bent menacingly towards the sheriff and when the lawman cowered in his chair, Bill reached out and snatched the badge from his waistcoat.

  ‘You ain’t entitled to wear this,’ he said, turning it over and over in his hand. He lo
oked back at the sheriff and when he next spoke there was grit in his voice,’ I want you to ride out to your boss.’

  ‘I ain’t got no boss,’ the sheriff snapped back. This earned him a snort of derision from both the old man and the kid.

  ‘Your boss,’ Bill continued. ‘Old man Stanton and you tell him that we’ve taken the town back He’s no longer running things around here. Bill paused; a thoughtful look crossed his face. He tossed the sheriff’s badge to the old man. ‘You tell him that Sam here is the new law in town. You tell him the kid and myself are his deputies.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ the now ex-sheriff said. ‘He’s nothing but a broken down old man.’

  The new sheriff came forward and for a moment it looked as if he was going to bring the butt of the shotgun into his predecessors face, show the fat man just how broken down he was. But then he smiled and pinned the badge to his shirt.

  ‘Better a broken down old man,’ he said, ‘than a corrupt tub of lard.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ Bill said and then quickly added: ‘Not that I’m saying you’re broken down, mind.’

  ‘You have been booted out of office, Sheriff Clemens,’ the kid said, grinning.

  ‘Ain’t no Sheriff Clemens about it. He’s no longer the sheriff,’ the old man said, proudly pushing his chest forward to show his badge. ‘From now on he’s simply Fats Clemens.’

  ‘Good a name as any,’ Bill said. ‘Now come on Fats. Get going and tell Stanton if he wants trouble, best leave it till gone noon. I’d like to get a little shut eye.’

  The sheriff, or rather ex-sheriff, got to his feet slowly as if unsure of himself and fearing one or other of the men was going to open fire at any moment. This didn’t make any kind of sense to him. The logical thing to do after springing the kid would be to vamoose, try to get as far away as possible before the shooting started, but this Welshman was anything but logical. He’d broken into the jailhouse in the dead of night, well walked in, calm as you like, and now he seemed to be intent on hanging around and facing the might of the Stantons. On the face of it he would have no chance, but Clemens didn’t think it wise to underestimate the man. He had already somehow bested two well-armed deputies without so much as a pocketknife in his possession. He’d been unarmed when the deputies had escorted him out of Stanton but somehow he’d gotten the better of them.

  ‘You’re letting me ride away,’ Clemens, the onetime lawman, asked.

  ‘No,’ Bill said, smiling. ‘I’m sending you on an errand. You tell Stanton all I’ve said and also inform him that if he comes looking for trouble I’ll send him straight to Hell.’

  Clemens didn’t answer, merely stared at Bill for a moment. There was something in the Welshman’s eyes that told the fat man his words, as incredible as they sounded, were no idle boasts. And for the first time in many years, the man considered the possibility that Stanton for all the muscle he commanded, all the guns at his disposal, may not be indestructible after all.

  ‘Now get going,’ Bill said. ‘Before I change my mind and gun you down here and now. We could hold a trial, say you attacked the new sheriff and I, like a good deputy, sprung to his defense.’

  Clemens shook his head.

  ‘You ain’t going to get away with this,’ he said once more and started towards the front of the jailhouse. His steps were slow and Bill helped him on his way with a well-aimed boot to his backside. That provoked a whoop of delight from the new sheriff.

  Once outside Bill ordered the old man and the kid to stay in the jailhouse while he escorted Clemens to his horse and set him on his way. Neither of the men was happy with this, but when they protested Bill cut them short, telling them he would be back in few moments and explain what had to be done. He didn’t elaborate on that and once again crossed the silent street, this time with the redundant lawman walking before him.

  They made their way to the livery stable where Clemens’s horse was housed in a reserved stall. The night was starting to give way to the day and in little more than an hour it would be dawn. Bill wanted to get the fat man well on his way before first light.

  ‘What are you trying to achieve here?’ Clemens asked, presently as he pulled his horse from its stall. He located his saddle in its usual place and threw it onto the horse. Next he bent to secure the straps and then turned back to Bill who had kept that Colt trained on him throughout the entire operation. ‘Well?’ he prompted.

  Bill looked back at the man, said nothing.

  ‘Hell,’ Clemens said. ‘I knew you was loco the first time I met you. Just didn’t figure out just how loco you truly were.’

  Again Bill said nothing and gestured with the Colt for Clemens to mount up, which the man did with surprising agility for someone so big.

  ‘My guns?’ Clemens asked, hopefully.

  ‘I think we’ll hang onto them,’ Bill said, smiling. ‘Seems the wise thing to do. And besides who would want to shoot you?’

  For a moment there was silence between the two men. It was Clemens who finally spoke.

  ‘I’ll just ride out of here then,’ he said, sat astride the horse, eyes scanning the Welshman. It was obvious he was still unable to believe what was happening, and was fully expecting to be gunned down at any moment.

  ‘Bloody marvelous,’ Bill said, smiling. He walked behind Clemens as the man rode out of the livery stable and onto the street. Bill remained there for some time, watching Clemens ride out of town, all the while wondering what train of events this latest escapade had started into motion.

  Still, he reasoned, whatever happened next would not be his fault. He was the one who had been transgressed against. It was he who had been dragged before a kangaroo court in which all due process was ignored. And if things had gone the way Stanton had planned then he would, at this very moment, be lying in a shallow grave.

  Too much had happened for him to simply ride away and as his da, had always said, ‘Chorddi ‘r arall boch boyo a cei daro ail,” which roughly translated as, “You turn the other cheek, boyo and you get smacked again.”

  Chapter Ten

  ‘He said what?’ Abaddon Stanton snarled.

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing and the news, brought by the sheriff, had made him furious. Sheriff – that was a joke since Clemens claimed that rickety old man from the livery stable had now assumed the responsibilities of town sheriff. And it got worse – that infernal Welshman, who seemed to behind this, and Henry Carthy were acting as deputies.

  It seemed the Welshman had just ridden back into town, presumably after killing the two heavily armed deputies who had been ordered to kill him, somehow turning the tables and beating the two men, and if that wasn’t enough, he had proceeded to bust the kid out of jail and then run the sheriff out of town, but only after removing his badge of office and appointing the livery man as Clemens’ replacement.

  Abaddon would have none of this. This was his town; this town carried his name. And he vowed that before the day was out the Welshman would be on the ground begging, groveling at his feet.

  ‘You have proven yourself useless,’ Abaddon said, turning to the fat man who had only hours ago been town sheriff. ‘You’re no good to me. You don’t deserve to be sheriff. You are incompetent, and worse a coward.’

  Clemens said nothing and looked as the old man’s hotheaded grandson Caleb crossed between them and stood before the fire. It was he who had started all this. It was he who had done something untoward, whatever the hell that was, to the kid’s mother and provoked this entire mess. Until the kid had burst into the saloon intent on killing Cal Stanton, the Welshman had been content to play cards. If Cal hadn’t started all this then maybe they would never have heard the name, William Williams. The Welshman would have ridden on, taken his funny ways with him, and life would have gone on pretty much as it always had.

  Instead they had all this.

  ‘Useless,’ Abaddon muttered, more to himself than anyone else and sunk wearily into the chair besides the large fireplace. His eyes
stared into the flames as he breathed deeply to regain his composure. What was there to be done about the accursed Welshman?

  ‘I’ll ride into town now,’ Caleb said. ‘Take a couple of men with me and kill that Welshman stone dead.’

  ‘That’s precisely what you will not do,’ Abaddon answered, sharply. The old man didn’t so much as look at his grandson, and instead continued to gaze into the dancing flames of the fire.

  Caleb glared at his grandfather for a moment before speaking, and the old man was aware of that stare, he felt it, knew that the look in his grandson’s eyes was not one of family loyalty but resentment, and maybe even the seeds of hate.

  ‘You let this Welshman get away with this,’ Caleb warned. ‘And pretty soon you’ll lose control of the town. That’s if you’ve not already lost control. These men who your court convicted are walking around as free as the day they were born. Something must be done about this and done immediately.’

  ‘I am well aware of what must be done,’ Abaddon said. ‘And I also know the way it must be done.’

  For several moments there was silence, while the old man continued to stare deep into the fire as if consulting some oracle within its flames and seeking wisdom therein. Caleb and the ousted sheriff simply stood there, saying nothing but both privately thinking up a storm.

  ‘I’ll take a ride into town immediately following breakfast,’ Abaddon said. ‘Take a couple of men with me and see if we can’t reason with this Welshman.’

  ‘He won’t listen to any talk,’ Caleb said. ‘Your court already ordered him out of town, never to return. Look at the contempt he has for that ruling. There is only one language men like this understand and that is the word of the gun.’

  Abaddon turned from the fire and stood to his full height. He glared at his grandson and momentarily the years seemed to fall from him. Where only seconds ago he had seemed a frail old man, someone in the final stages of his life, he now seemed young, virile and strong.

  ‘On times I despair of you,’ the old man said. He had loved his late daughter, the boy’s mother, with all his heart, not a day went by that he didn’t miss her. Indeed he often lay awake at night, remembering the warmth of her smile and the softness of her embrace, but, and not for the first time, he cursed her memory for giving him a grandson like Caleb. The boy’s father had been killed in an Indian attack and his mother had never remarried, had given all her attention to her son. Caleb had been spoilt all his life and now he was a hothead and an idiot. They had indulged him too much over the years, answered his every whim. When he had gotten in trouble they had been there to ensure the consequences were not too great. It had made him arrogant to the point of recklessness.