Deadly Day in Tombstone

by William W. Johnstone

  “Stonewall, have you heard all the talk around town?” Corbett asked.

  “Talk about what?”

  “You know.” The light was fading rapidly now that the sun had gone down, but Stonewall could tell Corbett looked uneasy. “About Dallin Williams. I’ve heard it all day in the store. People are whispering to each other about how Williams deserves to be strung up without waiting for a trial.”

  Stonewall nodded. “I appreciate the warning, Roy, but the sheriff knows all about it. Charlie Porter started talkin’ up a necktie party last night in the Birdcage. Doesn’t seem like the talk has let up much during the day, either.”

  “Do you think they’ll actually do it? Do you think a lynch mob will take Williams out of the jail and hang him?”

  “They might try. Sheriff Slaughter’s not about to let that happen, though.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to see Williams lynched.”

  The fervent declaration made Stonewall curious. “Why do you say that, Roy? You and him aren’t friends, are you? I wasn’t sure you even knew the fella.”

  “No, we’re not friends, but I don’t believe in people taking the law into their own hands. That’s a dangerous thing to have happen, especially in a town like Tombstone with its notorious history.”

  “Yeah, things used to be pretty rugged around here. But that’s all changed now. Tombstone’s got law and order, thanks to Sheriff Slaughter.”

  Corbett looked unconvinced, but he nodded. “We can hope so.”

  A frown creased Stonewall’s forehead. “Hold on a minute. You used to ride for Little Ed McCabe, didn’t you, back when you were cowboyin’?”

  “For a while,” Corbett said with a nod.

  “Then you knew Jessie McCabe.”

  Corbett waved a hand. “Yeah, sure, but she wasn’t much more than a knobby-kneed little brat, always underfoot, when I was there. Still, I liked her, I guess. She wasn’t a bad kid. I felt sorry for her when her brothers died.”

  “Seems to me that you wouldn’t be worrying about what might happen to Dallin Williams, then, after what he did.”

  “I don’t give a damn about Dallin Williams. I just don’t want him strung up without a trial first.” Corbett hesitated, then went on. “I haven’t told anybody this, but I’ve sort of got it in my mind to be a lawyer one of these days. That’s why I quit cowboying and went to work in the store. It takes money to get the schooling to be a lawyer, and I figured I’d never save up enough as long as I was just a wild young cowhand going on a bender at payday every month.”

  Stonewall grinned at this revelation and lightly punched his friend on the shoulder. “Why, you ol’ dog. Keepin’ a secret like that. I always wondered why you gave up a riding job. Figure on being a lawyer, do you?”

  “That’s what I’d like,” Corbett said with a nod. “So you can understand why I want Williams to be tried properly. If the West is ever going to be truly civilized, there won’t be any room for hangrope justice.”

  “I reckon not.” Stonewall leaned closer and added, “To tell you the truth, though, I’m not all that sure about that so-called civilization. Sometimes it seems to me like it’s just a different set of rules for the same old warrin’ and killin’.”

  “Maybe someday that won’t be the case.” The two young men stood there in silence for a moment, then Corbett went on. “I’d better let you get on about your business. I just wanted to warn you about all the talk that’s going on, if you hadn’t heard about it already.”

  “Don’t worry,” Stonewall assured him. “No lynch mob is gonna take a prisoner out of Texas John Slaughter’s jail. I can guaran-damn-tee that.”

  * * *

  Mose Tadrack had been paired with Stonewall and he was waiting at the jail when Stonewall got there. The newest deputy was a nondescript man in his thirties, the sort of hombre you’d glance at in the street and five seconds later have no recollection of what he looked like.

  Stonewall had no idea what Tadrack had done for a living before arriving in Tombstone; the man wasn’t talkative, and he wasn’t the sort to invite questions.

  Until fairly recently, he had been a boozehound, and the only job he’d been able to hold down was that of a swamper. Even at that, he hadn’t stayed in one place for too long but had moved from saloon to saloon.

  That had all changed when he’d volunteered for the posse that went after the Mexican bandits who had raided Tombstone and carried off Viola Slaughter as a hostage. That violent ordeal had burned all the liquor cravings out of him, and he hadn’t gone back to it.

  “We’re going to take the first shift here at the jail,” Tadrack told Stonewall. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Sure. I don’t reckon it really matters who does what, as long as everything’s covered. Where’s the sheriff ?”

  “He’s already out making the rounds in town. It wouldn’t surprise me if he stayed awake all night.” Tadrack’s voice held a note of admiration when he talked about John Slaughter. The sheriff was the only one who’d been willing to take a chance on him, maybe ever.

  Stonewall took down a pair of shotguns from the rack and loaded them. He and Tadrack each carried a revolver, but there was nothing better for facing down a mob than a shotgun. Those street-sweepers could cut a wide swath of destruction.

  Stonewall didn’t want to have to shoot anybody, particularly citizens of the town he was sworn to protect. He was confident that he would do his duty if it came down to that, but at the same time he couldn’t be sure how he would react if he found himself looking at somebody he knew over the barrels of that scattergun. What if it was someone he considered a friend, someone he might have shared a hymnal with during church services some Sunday morning? Could he really pull the trigger and blow somebody like that to kingdom come, just to save the miserable life of Dallin Williams?

  “You look like you’re a thousand miles away, Stonewall,” Mose Tadrack commented.

  “I sort of wish I was. If I was a thousand miles away, I wouldn’t have to be worried about what’s gonna happen tonight.”

  “Maybe nothing will happen,” Tadrack told him. “You know how people are. They talk and talk, but when it comes time to actually do something dangerous, most folks find an excuse to be somewhere else.”

  “Yeah, I hope that’s how it turns out—” Stonewall stopped short as he heard something from outside. The windows in the office were open to let in any cooling breeze . . . if there had been such a thing in Tombstone that night, which there wasn’t. Darkness hadn’t brought much relief from the heat.

  The open windows also admitted a low rumble. Stonewall thought at first it sounded like distant drums, but then he realized what he was hearing were voices.

  Angry voices.

  Tadrack heard it, too, and picked up one of the shotguns from the desk. “We’d better see what that is,” he suggested.

  “You know what it is,” Stonewall replied bleakly as he reached for the other shotgun.

  “I know what it sounds like. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, though.”

  Carrying the shotguns, the two deputies went to the door. They opened it and stepped outside.

  The courthouse didn’t have a porch or a boardwalk in front of it. The entrance opened directly onto Toughnut Street.

  Stonewall peered along the broad, dusty avenue and saw a crowd of men round the corner from Fifth Street. The area around Fifth and Sixth Streets where they crossed Allen and Fremont was where most of Tombstone’s saloons were located. He had no doubt that the men who strode purposefully toward the courthouse were well-lubricated and filled with liquid courage.

  Some of them carried torches, and the garish glow from the flames filled the air along with loud, angry words.

  “Mose, does that look like a lynch mob to you?” Stonewall asked.

  “I’m afraid it does,” Tadrack replied.

  And it was headed straight for the jail.

  Chapter 10

  Arabella heard some sort of commotion going
on outside, but she didn’t really pay much attention to it. She focused instead on listening to Morris Upton as he explained the rules of the tournament to the assembled players.

  “There are six of you at each table,” Upton said unnecessarily, since they could all count. “You’ll play until all but one has either dropped out voluntarily or been cleaned out and can’t continue. The four winners will play until the same situation applies. Then the one player still left in the game . . . will play me.”

  She hadn’t known that Upton was going to participate in the tournament until now. Evidently none of the other players had, either. A few mutters came from the tables where the gamblers were seated. Upton had set things up to favor himself, which struck some of them as unfair.

  But it was his saloon and his tournament, thought Arabella, and there was no rule that said things had to be fair in life.

  No such rule at all.

  “Does everyone understand?” Upton asked.

  The players—two dozen of the best poker players in the entire country—responded with nods and words of agreement.

  “All right,” Upton went on with a smile. “I’ll wish you good luck, then, gentlemen . . . and ladies.”

  Two other women besides Arabella were in the game. Copper Farris had gotten her name from the lush mane of red hair that she counted on to provide a distraction for the other players, along with her peaches-and-cream complexion and the ample bosom she always made sure was displayed to its best advantage.

  Copper wasn’t one of the top players, in Arabella’s opinion, but she was good enough to get by in most games.

  Not this one. Not against this competition.

  The other female in the tournament was Beulah Tillery. Short, dumpy, well into middle age, her looks weren’t going to distract anybody the way Copper’s would. But she was smart and had good instincts.

  And was dangerous on the other side of a poker table as far as Arabella was concerned. She was glad the luck of the draw hadn’t put her at the same table as Beulah starting out.

  Copper wasn’t at her table, either. Arabella wouldn’t have minded that. She was immune to the redhead’s charms and knew that she outclassed Copper as a player.

  She was also glad that the draw had put Steve Drake at one of the other tables. She had confidence in her ability to match up with him, but she didn’t want to. Not at this point in the tournament, anyway. If she had to face him once the game was down to one table, then so be it.

  She knew the five men who shared this table with her, at least by reputation. She had played with three of them—Jim Snyder, Angelo Castro, and J.D. Burnett. Arabella had never shared a table with the other two, Donald Lockard and Wade Cunningham.

  She knew from experience that she was better than Snyder, Castro, and Burnett, and she had never heard anything about Lockard and Cunningham to make her think that she couldn’t handle them as well.

  A new, sealed deck of cards sat in the middle of each table. Cunningham reached out with a long arm and picked up the deck .”I think we should let the lady have the privilege of opening these cards and dealing first.”

  Dark, heavyset Jim Snyder grunted. “I figured we’d cut for first deal.”

  “I have no objection to Lady Winthrop commencing the game,” Angelo Castro said. The Italian acted in public like he was a ladies’ man, but Arabella happened to know that his tastes in private ran in other directions.

  The other men didn’t object, either, so Arabella took the deck of cards from Cunningham and used her thumbnail to slit the seal. She made sure all her movements were precise and in plain sight as she opened the deck, spread the cards so everyone could see them, and then began to shuffle.

  It was all second nature to her, a matter of habit and instinct and reflex. She didn’t really have to pay attention to what she was doing as she manipulated the cards. Instead, she looked at her opponents without seeming to, weighing them, gauging them, speculating on the best approach to take with each one.

  Some players could be broken in a hurry. Others took more time and effort.

  The saloon was full of sounds. A large crowd was on hand to watch the tournament and to drink and enjoy the regular games of chance in the Top-Notch.

  The customers knew there was a lot of money in the place, and that seemed to increase their excitement. The roulette wheel, the faro layout, and the blackjack tables were all busy.

  Morris Upton could lose that final game and still make a small fortune on this tournament, Arabella thought.

  “The game is five card stud, gentlemen,” she said. “Would any of you care to cut the deck?”

  Before the other players could respond to the offer, a man pushed the batwings open, leaned into the saloon, and shouted, “There’s a lynch mob on its way to the jail! They’re gonna get that damn rapist and string him up to the nearest tree!”

  * * *

  Mose Tadrack drew his revolver from its holster and said to Stonewall, “Sheriff Slaughter told us the signal for trouble was three shots, right?”

  Stonewall had never been face to face with a lynch mob before. He had to swallow hard before he was able to nod and tell Tadrack, “Yeah, that’s right.”

  The former swamper pointed his gun into the air and fired three times as fast as he could pull back the hammer and squeeze the trigger. The booming reports made the oncoming mob stop for a moment.

  Somebody in the crowd yelled, “They’re shootin’ at us!”

  “Uh . . . Mose, that might not’ve been such a good idea.”

  “Blast it, Stonewall, get back inside!”

  The two deputies turned and dived for the door as several men in the forefront of the mob clawed out revolvers and opened fire.

  Bullets thudded into the thick walls of the courthouse as the deputies reached the door. Glass shattered in one of the windows. Stonewall got hold of the door and swung it closed behind them. He felt it shudder under the impact of bullets smacking into it.

  He and Tadrack had come close to getting ventilated. A shudder went through Stonewall at the thought.

  Brackets were mounted on each side of the door so that it could be barred. Stonewall wasn’t sure where the bar was, though.

  Neither was Tadrack. The older deputy shouted, “Where’s the blasted bar?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t used it since John’s been sheriff.” Stonewall glanced through the nearest window and saw the torches bobbing around as the mob charged toward the jail. “Maybe in the cell block.”

  “See if you can find it,” Tadrack told him. “I’ll try to hold them off.”

  Stonewall made a run for the cell block door. He heard Tadrack’s shotgun roar behind him.

  Part of him hoped that Tadrack had fired over the mob’s head in an attempt to scare them off, but after the way those bullets had come so close to him, he wasn’t as worried as he had been about innocent citizens getting hurt.

  Dallin Williams stood at the door of his cell, tightly gripping the bars as he stared at Stonewall with wide, frightened eyes. “What’s goin’ on out there? It’s a lynch mob come to get me, ain’t it?”

  “Just keep your head down,” Stonewall replied without really answering the prisoner’s question. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “Damn it, Stonewall, they’re gonna string me up!”

  “Not if we can do anything about it.” Stonewall spotted the thick beam used to bar the door leaning in a corner of the storage area at the back of the cell block and hurried to fetch the bar.

  Out in the office, Mose Tadrack’s shotgun exploded again.

  Stonewall grunted as he swung the heavy beam off the floor and into his arms. He turned and dashed back into the office, staggering a little from the awkward weight.

  Tadrack crouched beside one of the windows. A slug whipped through just before he slapped the inside shutters into place and latched them closed. It hit the wall at the back of the room separating the outer chamber from the sheriff’s private office. More bulle
ts struck the thick shutters, but wouldn’t get through.

  The courthouse had been built in 1882 when folks still worried with good cause about renegade Apaches and Mexican banditos. It had been constructed with an eye toward defense. Besides the thick shutters, the windows had decorative but functional ironwork over them. Nobody was going to break in that way.

  Whoever designed it probably hadn’t figured that someday the courthouse would be under attack by the very citizens of Tombstone themselves, thought Stonewall as he hurried to the front door.

  Outside, something slammed against it, but the latch held . . . for now. It wouldn’t stand up to repeated ramming, but the thick bar would.

  He struggled to drop the heavy beam into place. The job was easier when Tadrack sprang across the office and grabbed the other end.

  Together, they slid the bar into the brackets. That made Stonewall feel a little better, but not much. Another bullet came through a shot-out window, hit the cast-iron stove, and ricocheted off with a wicked whine.

  “We gotta get those other shutters closed.” Stonewall bent low to stay out of the line of fire as much as possible and moved in a crouching run toward the nearest unshuttered window.

  He reached up, grabbed the shutter on one side, and then jerked his hand back down with a gasped curse.

  “You hit?” Tadrack asked.

  Stonewall shook his hand and then looked at the back of it, where he saw a faint red line. He knew it had been left there by a slug passing close enough to burn the skin. “Not really. Just damn near.”

  He tried again and managed to close and latch the shutters. Across the office, Tadrack fastened the shutters on the remaining window.

  For now they were safer, but Stonewall’s guts still jumped a little every time he heard a bullet thud against the outside wall or the door.

  “What about the back door?” he asked Tadrack.

  “It was barred to start with,” the older man replied. “I checked on that first thing, before you and that mob even showed up.”

  “Hey, don’t make it sound like I’m with them!”

  Tadrack shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”