Adobe Moon

by Mark Warren

  The deputy in the blood-red shirt casually lowered his hand to his lap. The bartender set down a bottle and took a slow step to his left until a floorboard groaned. Then the big deputy laughed and began stuffing coins into his trouser pockets. Billy looked to his brother, but Ben only glared at the policeman. The other Texans present were either hungover or half-asleep.

  Now indifferent to the drama that had seemingly played out, James turned back to Wyatt. “So what in hell are you doing here in Ellsworth?”

  Wyatt slowly rotated his coffee cup on the bar. “Mostly passing through to a place I ain’t decided on yet.”

  “Hell, come over to Wichita. You can work with me.” James smiled broadly. “If you’re the shit-kicker you were in Peoria, I can use you.” He nodded toward the back of the room where a full-chested woman squirmed and laughed in the lap of the drover whispering into her ear. “See that prairie flower with the big floaters? She’s comin’ back with me soon’s we settle on terms. I run the best goddamn line o’ whores in Kansas. Got a good arrangement with the city police.”

  Wyatt sipped his coffee and set his cup thoughtfully on the bar. “Might be I’ll buy some cattle. See can I work into the middle of this meat market somewhere.”

  James hitched his head and gave his brother a crooked smile. “Wyatt, I swear. You’re like a goddamn rattlesnake wantin’ to learn to play a banjo.”

  Before Wyatt could reply, Billy exploded with another outburst of profanity, and Ben had to hold him in his chair by his collar. Their brotherly confab deteriorated into a yelling match, and Wyatt leaned closer to James.

  “I’ll be next door at the general store. Come on down there when you finish your business here.” Wyatt set down money and walked from the saloon.

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  Summer, 1873: Ellsworth, Kansas

  Now that he might gamble his way through the frontier towns, Wyatt felt the need for a handgun to replace the one he had abandoned in Arkansas. When he stepped into Beebe’s General Store, the storekeeper looked up from a catalogue and made a quick, flat-eyed appraisal of Wyatt’s clothes before returning to his reading.

  “Help you?” he said in a dry, singsong voice, keeping his eyes on the catalogue. The open page showed a dozen different designs of women’s private wear.

  “Like to take a look at your new revolvers.”

  The merchant moved to a modest array of guns behind a glass display case. Wyatt stepped in front of the glass, and right away the storekeeper read the disappointment in his face.

  “Bet you’re looking for one of these,” he said, opening a drawer. “Colt’s Army forty-four. Self-contained cartridges. Only got this show model.” Setting the hammer at half cock, he opened the gate and let the cartridges slide out one by one into his hand as he rotated the cylinder. Then he lowered the hammer, pocketed the bullets, and tapped the gun down onto the countertop. “Bought this’n off a drunk soldier out of Fort Hayes who’d got up to his ears in gambling debts.”

  Wyatt took the offered revolver and weighed it in the flat of his palm. He opened the loading gate to satisfy himself the chambers were empty and listened to the crisp clicks that defined the gun’s workmanship. The storekeeper leaned on the counter and watched.

  “Ticks like a clock, don’t it?” the man said. “Army’s got first call on ’em. I should be gettin’ some in, say, ’round October.”

  Wyatt closed the gate and completed the pull of the hammer, the moving parts integrating with a pleasing glissando of clicks as the cylinder locked into place. He lowered the gun by his leg and smoothly raised it, extending the arm out to his side, looking down the barrel. He felt in the weapon the same silent authority he had always appreciated in a well-made gun. He lowered the hammer and cocked it again, this time quickly.

  “Can I snap it?” Wyatt said.

  The storekeeper shrugged. “If you need to. But I can tell you it’s a smooth pull.”

  Wyatt snugged his finger against the trigger, the same feathery touch he used with a loaded weapon. He let the gun extend before him as if he intended not to disturb its weightless slumber. The quick strike of metal on metal delivered a sharp crack in the still air of the room. Wyatt nodded to the weapon as though it had spoken to him.

  Before he could voice his approval, deep angry voices carried through the walls from Brennan’s, reaching the store in muffled, watery sounds. Wyatt laid the gun on the counter and watched the storekeeper stare at the wall as though he could see through it. Heavy boots thudded and scuffed out onto the boardwalk, where the yelling rose to a higher pitch, the words clearer now without the barrier of the wall.

  “You goddamn sonzabitches! We’ll be back!” It was Billy Thompson’s petulant screech. Beebe’s door opened and two men in suits hurried in and gathered at the front window. Following them, James strolled in smoking his cigar, his face showing mild amusement.

  “You won’t have to wait long!” This challenge came from out in the plaza where Ben Thompson stood by the railroad tracks. A gun exploded in the next room, and Wyatt heard the bullet slap into the sun-bleached billboard of the hotel across the plaza. Billy Thompson cackled at the missed shot. Wyatt walked to the front window in time to see Billy staggering backward across the street, his arm and finger outstretched toward Brennan’s.

  “You sonzabitches! You can’t kill me!” His shrill voice filled the plaza. Citizens along the shaded boardwalks disappeared into doorways. “You’d better run!” Billy yelled. “You goddamn Kansas sonzabitches!” He stumbled into the hotel ahead of Ben.

  Bystanders returned to the boardwalk, but no one ventured into the open plaza, which had now become an empty stage waiting for the actors to return. Wyatt took note of the idle cast iron wood heater to his left, judging it to be ample shelter should a pitched battle erupt outside. James joined him, and together they watched a man emerge from the front entrance of the hotel. He wore a dark-blue shirt and gold vest and stood on the toes of ankle-high shoes to examine the damage to his building. He marched toward Brennan’s but stopped just past the rail tracks.

  “You deputies in there! You’re not hired to shoot up my hotel!” With the shouting inside Brennan’s, his complaint fell flat.

  “That’s Larkin, the hotel manager.” James laughed. “He’s sittin’ in the piss pot now.”

  “What happened?” Wyatt asked.

  James just shook his head and blew a swirl of smoke through his tight smile.

  “I wouldn’t care if they all just kill each other,” said Beebe, the storekeeper. “Damned Morco and Sterling . . . they ain’t a lick better’n them drunken Texans.” He peered out the window and snorted. “Now look at this, would you?” Beebe scowled and shook his head. “Shit.”

  A hatless, pockmark faced man in a striped shirt strode diagonally across the plaza. Another man hurried to stay abreast of him so as to keep up a running monologue. On the leading man’s blouse, Wyatt could make out a town marshal’s shield. He carried a pistol in a holster worn in front of his hip.

  “Brocky Jack’s come to restore the peace,” Beebe quipped. “And our mayor’s come to talk ’em to death.” He hissed a laugh through his teeth. “Last time Brocky Jack arrested the Thompsons, him and Morco kicked ’em like dogs all the way to the courthouse. Thompsons ain’t gone stand for it again, I can tell you that.” He shook his head again. “Our law ain’t worth piss.”

  “Why the hell doesn’t the mayor get rid of ’em?” James said.

  Beebe laughed outright. “Miller’s the one hired ’em. ‘Fight fire with fire,’ he says. Hell, it’s so out o’ control now . . . he figures without Brocky Jack and his damned pack, the Texans would own this town. But there ain’t nobody gonna run the Thompsons out.”

  A six-gun roared from inside Brennan’s, followed by two rifle shots outside. Heavy footfalls marked a hasty retreat by several men out the back of the saloon. On the street, Ben Thompson stood his ground wielding a Henry rifle. Behind him Billy stumbled down from the boardwalk
carrying a long, double-barreled shotgun. Ben lowered the Henry and tugged his brother by the arm down the street to Wyatt’s right. Two louder shots flashed from the doorway of Brennan’s. Two feet from Wyatt’s head, the door casing splintered, the pieces fracturing like dry kindling.

  “Goddamnit, stop your shooting, Morco!” the marshal yelled to Brennan’s.

  Wyatt turned at the click of a cylinder and watched Beebe slide cartridges back into the new Colt’s pistol. The men, who had moments before taken cover in the store, shuffled to the rear wall. One of them screwed up his face with a question and stared at Beebe.

  “What the hell’re you fixing to do?”

  “Kill the first one o’ them who walks through that door with a gun. Ain’t nobody gonna shoot up my store, by God.”

  The backdoor flew open, and Miller—the mayor—hurried in, tugging down the bottom of his vest to cover the gap at his bulging waist. Sweat dripped from his nose as his eyes darted around the room. He marched to the window and made birdlike movements with his head, checking the street up, then down.

  “What happened out there, Mayor?” someone asked.

  Miller answered without turning. “Sterling and Morco were sitting in on a card game with the Thompsons, if you can believe that. Sterling slapped Bill Thompson.” Miller shook his head. “The goddamn idiot! So the deputies pull guns, the table is on its side, money all over the floor, the Thompsons run out. Morco, I think, shot at—”

  “Come out and fight, you sonzabitches!” Billy Thompson screamed from the street. Red-faced, he struggled to steady the shotgun.

  Ben stepped beside him and bellowed his own challenge. “Get out here and make your fight, Sterling. You too, Morco. You damned yellow curs!” Ben held the Henry angled down from his shoulder, his head erect, like a man expecting to flush a bird. Four men dressed in Texas garb fanned out behind the Thompsons, their pistols showing at their hips. Together they moved toward the hotel again, taunting the officers with their Texas bravado. One of these—a powerfully built man—sidled up to Billy to help him walk. He was a broad-shouldered man who moved like the prizewinners from the boxing and wrestling bouts in the railroad camps. A pale scar underscored his left eye like a flattened gray worm. Each time this man’s lips moved, Ben Thompson nodded.

  Wyatt mumbled into the windowpane. “What the hell is he doin’ here?”

  “Who?” James said.

  “That big Texan . . . Peshaur . . . I know him. He’s trouble.”

  James laughed. “I’d say most everybody out there is trouble.”

  “For God’s sake, somebody go get Sheriff Whitney,” Miller said to the room at large.

  “Never mind that,” Beebe said. “He’s already out there.”

  As though he might step outside, Miller took the doorknob but then thought better of it. “He’ll quiet ’em down,” he mumbled more to himself than to the others in the room.

  Whitney stood unarmed in his shirtsleeves in front of the Texans, his back to Brennan’s. Both his forearms were leveled before him, the palms down and pumping the air in a lowering gesture as he parleyed with the Thompsons. One white shirttail hung out over the back of his trousers, as though he had dressed in haste.

  Wyatt watched the mayor open the door and again hesitate. The hotel manager marched out from his awning and joined the sheriff, and both men worked together to appease the Texans, who now numbered seven. Wyatt heard the sheriff offer to buy drinks all around. When the Texans balked, the sheriff took a few steps toward Brennan’s and cupped a hand to his mouth.

  “This is Sheriff Whitney! You men on the city force in there . . . holster your guns and stand where we can see you! We’re coming inside to talk this out!”

  As the Texans moved in a slow rippling wave in the hard light of the plaza, Wyatt caught a movement, a flash of color to his left. At the far corner of Brennan’s, the greasy-haired deputy in the bright-red shirt appeared, a revolver in each hand, both pointed at the approaching crowd. Ben Thompson’s rifle barked twice, the ratcheting of the lever almost lost between shots. As the deputy jumped back for cover, Billy Thompson’s shotgun boomed like a cannon, both barrels firing simultaneously. Sheriff Whitney pitched forward into the dust, his white shirt blossoming into liquid roses.

  Ben Thompson took a quick glance at Whitney as his Henry rifle turreted like a living thing with a mind of its own, seeking a target. “What the hell have you done, Billy?”

  The Texans spread out, back-stepping, their hands on their gun butts. Peshaur began pulling Billy toward the hotel.

  “Shoot anybody wearing a badge,” Billy screamed. “I don’t care if it’s Jesus Christ hisself.”

  The hotel manager was first to get to the sheriff. Then the bartender from Brennan’s. Neither man seemed to know what to do. Their eyes were ringed with white as they looked from the downed sheriff to the Texans. Larkin crouched but stood ready to run.

  “Damn it!” Miller grunted from the safety of the room. “I think they’ve killed Whitney.”

  More Texans gathered in front of the hotel. They grew louder and now brandished pistols in their hands. While the bartender and Larkin dragged the sheriff onto the shade of the boardwalk at Brennan’s, someone led a ready mount into the Texas crowd. Ben and Peshaur hoisted the drunken Billy into the saddle and fitted the stirrups over his boots. Ben handed up the Henry, took the shotgun, and jabbed his finger at his brother as he barked commands. Billy emptied a pocketful of shotgun shells onto the dusty street and then took up the slack on the reins. With a slap on its rump, the horse bucked into a quick gallop, and two men had to run alongside to keep the rider upright.

  James crushed out his cigar on the wood heater. “I’ve seen enough of this town.” He pulled Wyatt toward the backdoor, but both hesitated when someone rushed in through the front.

  “Is the doctor in here?” It was Larkin, his skin as pale as chalk.

  “The doc’s over in Junction City,” someone offered.

  Mayor Miller stepped from the crowd and stood at the window. “How bad is it for Whitney?”

  “I don’t see how he can survive it. They’re taking him down to his house.”

  Miller covered his eyes and squeezed his temples with a thumb and finger. After taking in a deep breath, he spewed out his frustration. He faced the front door, bared his teeth for a moment, and then marched outside. Larkin ran after him calling for him to wait, but Miller was already yelling into the plaza.

  “I’m James H. Miller! I’m the mayor of this town!”

  Standing beside Thompson, Peshaur laughed. “We don’t care if you’re Ulysses H. Grant. You’d best stay on your side of the street. You too, Larkin.” The hotel manager bumped into Miller’s back when the mayor stopped. “You ain’t our friend, and we sure as hell ain’t yours.”

  Both townsmen stood speechless until Miller turned toward Brennan’s and yelled so hard that his voice cracked. “The police force is fired! Every last one of you! Norton, Sterling, Morco!” He turned back to the Texans and lifted his arms away from his sides as if he had just exhausted every possibility open to him.

  “If they ain’t policemen no more, you want us to kill ’em for you?” Peshaur offered.

  “I don’t care what you call ’em,” Ben Thompson said evenly, “I’m shooting the first one o’ those sonzabitches I see. They’re the ones opened this ball.”

  Larkin stepped abreast of the mayor. “Mr. Thompson, I—”

  “Git out o’ my sight!” Ben interrupted. “You ain’t our friend neither.”

  Larkin backed toward the boardwalk, pulling Miller with him. When they re-entered Beebe’s store, both men were shaking.

  “What about the deputy sheriff . . . Hogue?” Miller asked. “Where the hell is he?”

  Beebe snorted. “Hell, Thompson hates him more’n the others.”

  “Somebody’s gone to find him,” one man said in a rush.

  “We need someone who knows Thompson,” Miller said. “Someone who can talk some sense to him
.”

  Larkin’s eyes took on a fierce glow as he raised his arm and pointed at Wyatt. “He knows him. Ben Thompson asked about him this morning.” Every man looked at Wyatt.

  “I played poker with him,” Wyatt said. “Can’t say I know ’im.”

  “Thompson was looking for him in the hotel to give him his shotgun.” Larkin spat this out like a damning piece of evidence. “Thompson called him by name . . . Earp.”

  Wyatt said nothing.

  “Young man,” Miller said, “if you know him well enough to talk to him . . .”

  “Anybody can talk to him. I don’t know why he would listen any better to me.”

  “Why is he giving you his shotgun?”

  “Won it off ’im in poker.”

  Miller levitated his arms from his sides and looked bewildered. “Well, hell. This would be a good time to collect on it. We’ve got a powder keg about to blow out there.”

  Wyatt stared at Miller for three heartbeats. “This ain’t my powder keg. The way I see it, you used poor judgment in your selection of officers. That shotgun is not important to me.”

  Mayor Miller flung out his hands. “Forget the shotgun! Will you at least talk to him?” Miller stepped forward and ushered Wyatt aside with a clammy grip on his elbow. As they moved, the mayor’s words began pouring out in a whispery rush. “Tell him we’ve got to put a good face on this for everybody. Tell him if he’ll just give up his gun, we’ll wash the slate clean. We’ve got to get this under control. Judge Osborne will go along with me on this. For Ben, we can call it disturbing the peace. I’ll pay the fine myself. It was his brother did the killing. No charges like that will be brought up against Ben.”

  Wyatt stared at the man for a time. When he spoke, everyone in the room heard him.