Deadly Day in Tombstone

by William W. Johnstone

  Stonewall picked up the shotgun he had set on the desk earlier when he went to fetch the bar. He pressed his back against the wall near the door and tried to calm his rampaging pulse without much success.

  On the other side of the door, Tadrack took shells from his pocket and slid them into the barrels of his shotgun.

  “When you shot at the mob,” Stonewall said, “did you aim over their heads?”

  Tadrack hesitated before answering. Finally he said, “Yeah, I did. Both times. I can’t guarantee nobody got plinked by the buckshot, but I tried not to kill anybody.” He sighed. “When I looked out there, I saw faces I recognized, Stonewall. Fellas who drink in the saloons where I used to work. I know they were trying to kill us, but they’re just worked up and liquored up. Most of ’em really aren’t bad hombres, when you come right down to it.”

  “Maybe not, but they’re bound and determined to hang Williams, and they’ll stampede right over us if they have to.”

  “I know.” Tadrack closed the shotgun’s breech. “You think the sheriff’s on his way with some help by now?”

  “I surely do hope so.”

  * * *

  Slaughter stood at the corner of First and Fremont Streets with a shotgun tucked under his left arm and looked at the small adobe house sitting behind a couple cottonwood trees. It was a nice, neat place, nothing fancy, but he thought it might suit him.

  He had been staying at the American Hotel, Tombstone’s best, since he’d been elected and taken office, but he didn’t want to have to bed down in a hotel room for the entire duration of his service as sheriff. Lately, he had given some thought to buying a house. He decided that he would bring Viola to have a look at the house on the corner the next time she was in town.

  He would value her opinion on the matter, as he did on just about everything else in life.

  A trio of shots followed by a sudden burst of gunfire several blocks away made him jerk his head around. A startled curse came from his lips.

  He had been making the rounds of Tombstone all evening, judging the temper of the town, but had allowed himself to be distracted by thoughts of buying a house and making a home there, albeit a temporary one.

  Those three shots had been the signal for trouble, and they jolted him back into the present. Holding the shotgun at a slant across his chest, he broke into a run toward the courthouse. The unmistakable boom of a shotgun drifted through the night air.

  He had heard plenty of muttering from the townspeople while he was walking around, but they always shut up when he came close enough to make out any words. Those abrupt silences made him sure the gossip in town was about Dallin Williams and the idea of breaking him out of jail and hanging him.

  As shots thundered through the night, Slaughter ran past the school, hoping none of his deputies had been hurt.

  A tall, lean figure emerged from the shadows to join him. Slaughter glanced over and recognized the hawk-like visage of Lorenzo Paco.

  “Trouble, eh, Sheriff?” the Mexican deputy said.

  Another shotgun blast sounded.

  “It was bound to happen,” Slaughter said, then saved his breath for running.

  As they turned the corner from First Street onto Toughnut, Slaughter saw the courthouse two blocks away. He slowed at the sight of muzzle flashes winking from the opposite side of the street. A few torches lay in the street, guttering out where they had been dropped when the men carrying them had scattered.

  Slaughter and Paco paused behind a parked wagon. To Slaughter’s experienced eye, the scene was as plain as if it had been written in a book.

  “A lynch mob showed up and tried to rush the jail,” he said quietly. “Whoever is in there signaled for help and then forted up. A couple loads of buckshot scattered the mob, but they took cover and now they’re trying to flush out the deputies.”

  “Sí, that is how I see it, too, Señor Slaughter,” Paco said. “Do you know who is inside?”

  Slaughter shook his head. “No, I left you fellas to work that out among yourselves, remember?” He frowned at Paco. “Aren’t you supposed to have another deputy with you? You were going to patrol the town in pairs.”

  “I was with Tommy. He felt the call of nature and went behind a shed to answer it. Then the shooting started, and I did not wait for him to return.”

  Slaughter nodded. He hoped his wife’s wild young cousin would have the sense not to rush right into all that flying lead.

  He didn’t have to worry about that. A few moments later, while trying to figure out his next move, he heard someone behind them calling softly, “Lorenzo! Blast it, where’d you go, Lorenzo?”

  Paco stepped out from behind the wagon and waved an arm at the young man who hurried along the street, buttoning up his fly as he trotted through the shadows.

  “Over here!” Paco said.

  Tommy veered toward the wagon and joined them. His teeth gleamed in the light of the rising moon as he grinned. “Boy, it sounds just like a war, don’t it?”

  “And our side is outnumbered,” Slaughter said as he tried to suppress the irritation he felt. Tommy was too young to take much of anything seriously, but before the night was over he might realize what a grim business this really was.

  “Who’s in the jail?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Come to think of it,” Tommy went on, “I think I heard that fella Tadrack say that him and Stonewall were gonna take the first guard shift, so it’s probably them.”

  Slaughter nodded and tried not to think about the fact that his young brother-in-law might be in there. If the door was barred and the shutters were closed on the windows, Stonewall and Tadrack ought to be relatively safe, he told himself. The mob could shoot at the courthouse all night without doing much real damage.

  At the same time, the idea of a bunch of drunken fools trying to take the law into their own hands outraged him. He wasn’t going to stand for that. His hands tightened on the shotgun as he straightened from his crouch behind the wagon.

  “Sheriff, what are you going to do?” Paco asked with a note of worry in his voice.

  “Put a stop to this madness.” Slaughter stepped out from behind the wagon.

  Before Paco or Tommy could stop him, he strode forward determinedly, heading straight for the torrent of lead slashing at the front of the courthouse.

  Chapter 11

  The startling announcement that a mob was about to attack the jail caused quite a stir inside the Top-Notch. Some of the people who had come to watch the poker tournament moved toward the batwinged entrance. For them, the lure of potential violence outweighed the attractions of a game of chance.

  Gunplay, after all, had higher stakes.

  Morris Upton moved quickly to intercept the customers who were about to leave. He put himself in front of the door and raised his hands and his voice. “Hold on there, folks, hold on. You don’t want to go out there.”

  “We sure as hell do,” one whiskery old-timer said. “It ain’t every day there’s a lynch mob here in Tombstone.”

  Several men shouted their raucous agreement with that sentiment.

  “But it could be dangerous,” Upton argued.

  “We’ll take our chances, mister. As long as we stay out of the line of fire, we ought to be all right.”

  Upton hesitated.

  From her place at the table, Arabella could practically see the wheels of his brain turning. If half the crowd deserted the saloon to watch the showdown at the courthouse, he might sell only half as much liquor tonight.

  Of course, once the trouble was over many of the bystanders would drift back to the Top-Notch, but probably not all of them. That would still cut into his profits.

  “If you leave now,” Upton said, “you’ll miss out on the free drinks to celebrate the beginning of the tournament.”

  “Free drinks?” someone in the crowd called.

  “That’s right.” Upton nodded decisively now that he had made up his mind on his best course of action. He waved a
hand toward the bar. “The next round is on me, boys.”

  That broke the back of the burgeoning stampede. A few men weaved around Upton to push through the batwings and leave, but most of them turned back to the bar to collect that free drink.

  Upton must figure he would make more money in the long run that way, thought Arabella. And he might be right about that. One drink usually led to another and another, and he would be charging full price for those next shots of watered-down booze.

  As the commotion subsided, Arabella looked around the table at the other five players. “As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, gentlemen, the game is five card stud. . . .”

  * * *

  Oscar Grayson didn’t like the sound of the words lynch mob. They gave him the fantods. Although nobody had ever come after him with the intention of stringing him up, more than once he’d had to flee from groups of angry men who wanted to tar and feather him and maybe ride him out of town on a rail.

  He had only a vague idea of who the prisoner in the jail was, but he decided he felt sorry for the poor guy anyway.

  He pushed those thoughts out of his mind. He had to concentrate on what he was doing. The cards were being dealt at his table, as well as at all the others.

  The game was underway.

  Grayson didn’t really know any of the other players at the table, although when they’d introduced themselves, some of the names were familiar to him. He supposed they must have reputations as good poker players, or else Upton wouldn’t have invited them to the tournament.

  Grayson wasn’t really worried about the competition. He had confidence in his skills.

  He also had the knowledge that it didn’t matter if he won or not. He wanted to be able to stay in the game for a while, but that was no longer his ultimate goal. The payoff from his other plan would be even better.

  He checked his hole card. Seven of clubs.

  They had cut the deck for the first deal, and the man who had won passed out the cards deftly as the betting went around the table, giving Grayson the jack of diamonds, two of hearts, seven of hearts, and ten of clubs.

  The pair of sevens wasn’t good enough, Grayson judged. He dropped out of the hand.

  His instincts were correct. One of the other players took the hand with the other three jacks. Grayson was starting the game down a little, but not too bad.

  Somewhere in town—down around the courthouse and jail, he supposed—more shots began to ring out. He ignored them. If the guns weren’t aimed at him, he didn’t care. It was none of his business.

  Half an hour later he had won only a single hand, but that pot was a good one, big enough so that he was almost even again as he raked it in.

  Play paused briefly as a couple men rolled cigarettes. Another lit up a cigar. One signaled for a drink to be brought over to him.

  During that break, Grayson glanced over at the table where Jed Muller sat. The game continued there. That ugly she-devil Beulah Tillery was one of the players at that table, and Grayson could tell by the pile of money in front of her that she had been fairly successful so far.

  But it would be a long game. Things still had quite a ways to go, and fortune could change at any time.

  His gaze drifted over to the fourth table. His guts tightened with anger as he saw Steve Drake sitting at that one and remembered the high-handed way the silver-haired gambler had invaded his hotel room that morning. Grayson hoped the high-and-mighty blackguard lost everything.

  Seated to Drake’s right was Copper Farris. Grayson’s eyes lingered on her. Any man would have trouble taking his eyes off of her, he thought. She was spectacular . . . but in a gaudy, flashy way. He wasn’t sure Copper was actually any more lovely than Arabella Winthrop. The English woman’s beauty was just more subtle, that was all.

  Still, most men would have trouble concentrating on their cards with the creamy expanse of Copper’s bosom staring at them from a low-cut gown across the table. He had no doubt that she counted on that.

  At the moment, Grayson was actually more interested in the man who sat two chairs to Steve Drake’s left. Max Rourke was also a redhead, although his hair was a much more subdued shade than Copper’s flaming mane. He was lean, with a face that reminded Grayson of a fox. Rourke’s cheeks were faintly pitted from a childhood illness. His green eyes were flat and hard, like a stone. Like an emerald.

  Rourke had killed even more men in gunfights than Steve Drake had, at least six. That didn’t count the Indians and whores he was rumored to have done for. His temper was said to be uncontrollable.

  But he was supposed to be relatively trustworthy if you were working with him. At least Grayson thought so, and he hoped the hunch was right. Before the tournament was over, he might have a lot riding on Max Rourke.

  Everything, in fact.

  * * *

  Burt Alvord and Jeff Milton ran up behind the wagon where Lorenzo Paco and Tommy Howell were crouched. Burt asked, “What in blazes is the sheriff doing?”

  “He said he was gonna put a stop to the shootin’,” Tommy replied. “I don’t see how, though.”

  If Slaughter had heard that, he might have admitted that he didn’t really know, either. Anger had prompted him to step out into the open.

  Sheer stubborn determination kept him going.

  He reached the intersection of Second Street and Toughnut. The courthouse was on the south side of Toughnut at the far end of the block.

  The businesses on the north side of the street were all dark at that hour. The members of the mob had taken cover in alleys, behind rain barrels and water troughs, and anywhere else they could find that offered a little protection. Muzzle flame continued to spurt from their guns as Slaughter approached.

  Someone must have spotted him coming along the street. A man yelled hoarsely between shots, “It’s the sheriff !” The gunfire slowed but didn’t stop.

  Several more men shouted. “There’s Texas John!”

  “Hold your fire, boys! That’s the sheriff !”

  A grim smile tugged at Slaughter’s mouth for a second. He was glad that at least some of the men weren’t so drunk or caught up with blood lust that they didn’t realize who he was.

  Most of Tombstone’s citizens were law-abiding, at least deep down, and he had hoped that the sight of the town’s top peace officer would make some of them pause.

  He stopped and held the shotgun one-handed, propping the butt against his hip. At the top of his lungs, he bellowed, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire, I say!”

  The shots dwindled even more, but a few stubborn members of the mob continued shooting at the courthouse for several seconds before their companions forced them to stop.

  As the echoes of the onslaught rolled away in the hot, still, night air, Slaughter resumed his approach. He stalked forward until he was planted smack-dab in the most dangerous place of all, right between the mob and the courthouse.

  If they opened fire again, he would be shot to pieces in a matter of seconds. But it was the iron will of Texas John Slaughter that ruled over the scene and maintained order.

  A tense silence reigned over Toughnut Street.

  Slaughter called out, “Who’s the leader of this group?” He didn’t really expect an answer, and he didn’t get one.

  No one spoke up.

  After a long moment, he continued in scathing tones, “That’s just what I’d expect from a bunch cowardly enough to form a lynch mob.”

  “This ain’t a lynch mob,” a man called from the mouth of an alley. “We come to bring justice.”

  “That’s the law’s job,” Slaughter shot back instantly. “It’s not the responsibility of a motley horde of drunkards, bar flies, and layabouts.”

  Back along the street, behind the wagon, Tommy Howell said, “Dang, John, are you tryin’ to get ’em to shoot you?”

  “John Slaughter believes in speakin’ his mind,” Jeff Milton said with a note of admiration in his voice.

  Another member of the mob called from behin
d a rain barrel, “Dallin Williams deserves to hang for what he done to that poor McCabe girl, Sheriff. You know that just as well as we do.”

  “It’s up to a judge and jury to decide what the prisoner deserves,” Slaughter said stubbornly. “It’s not up to you or me. My job is just to hold Williams until he comes to trial, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  “You’d risk your own life for no-account trash like that?”

  “I’m risking my life for the law, not for Dallin Williams,” Slaughter said.

  Silence hung over the street again, broken by agitated muttering among the men.

  Slaughter figured his words were having an effect on some of them. Whether enough of them would decide to be reasonable and the mob would break up was still very much in question, however.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted Enoch Shattuck and G.W. Farrington taking up positions farther to the east along Toughnut Street. Along with the other deputies to the west, they could lay down a deadly crossfire if the mob tried an all-out frontal assault on the courthouse. Slaughter was confident that his men could drive them back. The members of the mob would lose their courage in a hurry once some of them started dying.

  But he didn’t want things to come to that. He wanted to head it off without anybody losing his life.

  “Is Charlie Porter here?” Slaughter called. “Charlie, are you out there? Or any other McCabe men?”

  “We don’t need Little Ed McCabe or any of his hands to lead us,” one of the men responded. “We know what’s right.”

  “What’s right is for all of you to go home and forget this foolishness. I ought to arrest each and every one of you for disturbing the peace and malicious destruction of county property. There are broken windows and bullet holes in the county courthouse, by God, and I don’t appreciate that.” Slaughter drew in a deep breath and glared in the direction of the men he couldn’t see in the shadows.

  “But I won’t do that. I’ll let you all leave . . . but only if you do it now. Any man who’s still on this street in five minutes is going to jail. You hear me? Five minutes.”

  He heard one of the men say quietly, “The sheriff’s got plenty of sand, facin’ us all down and givin’ orders like that. You got to give him credit.”