Deadly Day in Tombstone

by William W. Johnstone

  Stonewall had gone to the boarding house where he had a room. He tried to get a couple hours sleep before going back on duty, but he hadn’t been able to do more than doze fitfully.

  Tired, he was up before dawn. He and Tadrack joined the patrols walking around the streets of Tombstone. The big saloons were the only things that were open.

  As they passed by the Top-Notch, Stonewall looked through the windows and saw the poker games going on, although many of the spectators had drifted away. More than likely the tournament would continue until dawn, he thought, and then break up for a while so the players could get some rest.

  He caught a glimpse of the English lady through the glass, but couldn’t tell how much money she had in front of her. Of course, that wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself. Keeping the prisoner safe was.

  As the sky lightened in the east, they turned toward the courthouse. Stonewall wanted to make certain nothing had happened there during the night.

  “I’m going to stop by my shack.” Tadrack still lived in the same run-down jacal that had been his home when he was a saloon swamper. “It won’t take me but a few minutes.”

  “That’s all right,” Stonewall said. “Everybody’s asleep except us. I’ll go on to the courthouse.”

  “I’m sure if there had been any more trouble, we would have heard.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Stonewall said, but he knew he would feel better about everything once he had seen Dallin Williams safely behind bars with his own eyes.

  When he reached the courthouse, he saw that the shutters were still closed over the windows inside. It had to be hot as blazes in there with no air moving around, but opening the shutters risked some hungover sorehead taking a potshot at the deputies on duty.

  The door was barred, too. Stonewall knocked on it and called, “Hey, it’s me. Open up.” He heard the bar being lifted from its brackets.

  The door swung open, and his cousin Tommy stood there. “Anything goin’ on out there?”

  “Nary a thing,” Stonewall replied.

  Lorenzo Paco leaned the beam against the wall near the door and picked up his rifle. “I will go to the café and bring back breakfast for the prisoners. Where is Mose?”

  “Stopped at his place. He’ll be along directly.”

  Paco nodded. “You and Tommy can stay here until I get back unless Mose shows up first. Then you can go home, Tommy. It’s been a long night.”

  Stonewall couldn’t argue with that, but he didn’t much like the way Paco was giving orders. The Mexican wasn’t even a regular, full-time deputy. Stonewall was.

  But Paco had been around those parts for a lot longer, and John Slaughter had a lot of confidence in him. Stonewall decided it wasn’t worth worrying about. He lifted a hand in farewell as Paco left the courthouse.

  Stonewall glanced at the beam and wondered if he and Tommy should slip it back into the brackets. That seemed like too much trouble. It was already getting light outside. Nobody would try anything. Folks would be too sleepy to even think about lynching anybody.

  “I’m gonna go check on the prisoners,” Tommy said. “They’ve been mighty quiet.”

  “Sleeping, more than likely.” Stonewall thought about how filled with despair Dallin Williams had been and added, “Probably a good idea, though.”

  More than one man had given up hope while locked behind bars and done away with himself—usually by tearing strips off his bedding, making a rope out of it, and hanging himself.

  Stonewall really didn’t see Dallin doing such a thing . . . but it never hurt to be sure.

  Tommy unlocked the cell block door and went inside, carrying the ring of keys with him. Stonewall saw that but didn’t take any real notice of it. He went over to the gun rack to put up the Winchester he’d carried while he and Tadrack were on patrol.

  A frown creased his forehead as a thought occurred to him. It wasn’t a good idea to go into the cell block alone with the keys. You didn’t need them unless you were going to unlock one of the cells, and you wouldn’t do that unless you had another deputy standing by with a gun, just in case the prisoner tried anything . . .

  He drew in a sharp breath and turned toward the cell block. At that moment, he heard a commotion—the quick shuffle of feet, a sharp outcry cut short, a dull thud.

  Stonewall bit back a curse and lunged toward the open door, grabbing at the butt of his revolver. The Colt hadn’t cleared leather when he reached the doorway. He stopped short at the sight of a cell door swinging open. As it clanged back against the bars of the adjoining cell, Dallin Williams stepped out into the aisle and pointed the gun in his hand at Stonewall.

  In the cell across the aisle, the wounded Harley Court cowered on his bunk with a bandage wrapped around his ventilated leg. From the frightened look on his face, he didn’t want anything to do with what was going on.

  “I’d sure take it kindly if you was to let go of that gun, Stonewall,” Dallin said quietly. “I didn’t wake up this mornin’ feelin’ like killin’ anybody.”

  Stonewall hesitated with his hand still on the revolver. It wouldn’t take much time for him to finish his draw and bring the weapon level.

  But in that time, Dallin could press the trigger of the gun he had taken from Tommy. Stonewall knew he couldn’t beat the shot.

  His startled gaze dropped to Tommy, who lay sprawled on the stone floor just outside the cell. Blood trickled from a wound on the young man’s head.

  “Did you—”

  “Kill him? Shoot, no.” Dallin seemed offended by the idea. “I just walloped him hard enough to knock him out for a few minutes. He’ll be fine except for a little headache when he wakes up.”

  Stonewall suspected that Tommy’s head would hurt more than just a little, but at least his cousin wasn’t dead.

  “You’re still holdin’ on to that gun and makin’ me nervous,” Dallin went on.

  With a sigh, Stonewall released the Colt and let it slide back down into its holster. Dallin nodded in satisfaction and moved a step closer to him.

  “Let me guess,” Stonewall said. “Tommy got too close to the bars, and you grabbed him and took his gun and knocked him out. Then you got hold of the keys and let yourself out.”

  “That’s just about the size of it,” Dallin admitted. “Ol’ Tommy, he wasn’t really payin’ close enough attention to what he was doin’.”

  “He didn’t expect you to jump him like that.”

  Dallin’s voice sharpened. “Well, hell, I didn’t really have any choice, now did I? I got to do somethin’ to get out of here while I got the chance, otherwise I’m gonna wind up swingin’ from a tree branch. You think I didn’t hear all that ruckus last night?”

  “We didn’t let that mob get you, did we?”

  “Not that time. What happens next time?”

  “We’ll stop them again,” Stonewall said with an emphatic nod.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. What if Little Ed grabs you or one of the other deputies and uses you as a hostage? He could threaten to kill you unless the sheriff turned me over to him.”

  Stonewall shook his head. He hadn’t considered that possibility, “John would never do that.”

  But Dallin had had more time to sit and think, locked up the way he was. “You really think so? You figure he’d let his wife’s little brother die just to protect the likes of me? I’d be plumb surprised if he did. So surprised I don’t want to risk my life on it.”

  Dallin might have a point, thought Stonewall, but he said, “It’ll never happen. McCabe knows what would happen if he tried something like that. He’d have Texas John Slaughter on his trail for the rest of his life.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s my life I’m talkin’ about.” Dallin motioned with the gun. “Back up now, slow and easy.”

  Slow was fine with Stonewall. The longer he could delay Dallin’s attempted escape, the better the chance Tadrack or Paco would show up at the courthouse. That would put a stop to Dallin’s loco idea.

  Dallin followed him ou
t of the cell block, then jerked the gun barrel again. “Turn around.”

  “Why? So you can shoot me in the back?”

  “Dadgum it! I told you I ain’t gonna hurt you unless I have to, Stonewall. Why would I do that? We’re friends. I got nothin’ against you. You’ve just been doin’ what the sheriff tells you to do.”

  “You know you’re not going to get away. John’s one of the best trackers in the territory, and Lorenzo Paco is even better. They’ll find you, wherever you go.”

  “Maybe. But maybe by then things’ll be different, and it won’t matter if they find me.”

  “What in blazes do you mean by that?” Stonewall asked with a confused frown.

  “Never you mind. Just turn around like I told you so I can get your gun. Then you can drag ol’ Tommy boy into that cell and I’ll close the door behind you. I ought to be able to find a horse and get out of town before anybody comes to help you.”

  “I’ll yell,” Stonewall said.

  “Won’t do you much good. This early all the courthouse offices are still closed, and with these thick walls all the yellin’ in the world won’t go very far.”

  Dallin was right about that, Stonewall thought bitterly. And he didn’t doubt that while Dallin was telling the truth about not wanting to shoot, he would if he was forced into it.

  Try as he might, Stonewall didn’t see how he was going to stop the prisoner from getting away.

  “Turn around and put your hands up,” Dallin said. “I ain’t gonna tell you again.”

  Still moving slowly to stall for time, Stonewall turned around and lifted his arms. He heard the scrape of Dallin’s boot leather on the floor close behind him.

  At that instant, Tommy groaned in the cell block.

  Stonewall was so keyed up he couldn’t stop himself from jerking his head around to look over his shoulder. He saw that Dallin had reacted the same way and was looking back into the cell block, not at him.

  Without a second’s hesitation, Stonewall threw himself backward and crashed into the prisoner. The collision sent both men reeling toward the cell block.

  Stonewall didn’t try to draw his gun again. He didn’t want anybody to die, either. He wrestled with Dallin in an attempt to take the gun away. “Tommy!” he shouted. “Tommy, wake up and help me!”

  He didn’t hear any response from Tommy, but Dallin grunted with effort. “Damn it, Stonewall—”

  Stonewall lowered his head and butted Dallin in the face.

  Dallin yelped in pain and jerked back as blood welled from his nose. Stonewall had both hands on the wrist of Dallin’s gun hand as he forced the barrel away from him and tried to wrench the weapon loose.

  Dallin’s left fist came up and around in a hooking blow that landed solidly on Stonewall’s jaw and drove his head to the side. His grip started to slip, so he redoubled his efforts to hang on tighter.

  Given Dallin’s history as a ladies’ man, it was no surprise that he had been in plenty of fights. He had been caught more than once by angry husbands and outraged suitors. He’d had to battle his way free, so he was skilled and experienced at bare knuckles brawling.

  Stonewall had been in his share of fights, too, but none as desperate as this one. The blow Dallin had landed had muddled his brain a little. He tried to shake off the dizziness and blurriness. He surged forward and lifted his knee, aiming it at Dallin’s groin.

  Normally, he never would have attempted such a despicable blow, but he had to protect himself and Tommy and stop Dallin from escaping.

  Unfortunately, Dallin twisted aside and caught Stonewall’s knee on his thigh. He used his free hand to grab the front of Stonewall’s shirt and heaved, swinging the young deputy around so that Stonewall slammed into the doorjamb.

  That jolted Stonewall’s hands off Dallin’s wrist. The gun darted up, fell swiftly. The barrel smashed against the side of Stonewall’s head with stunning force.

  He felt his knees start to fold up and fought to stay on his feet, but his muscles had stopped responding to him.

  “I’m sorry, Stonewall,” Dallin said.

  Another blow exploded through Stonewall’s brain, and that was the last thing he knew before spiraling down into darkness.

  Chapter 14

  The games continued at the Top-Notch until almost dawn. Arabella’s table was still full, but a couple players at the other tables had quit, reckless players who had been wiped out by their untimely plunging.

  Some people just didn’t have the necessary patience for this game, Arabella thought as she gathered up her stake. She was ahead about five hundred dollars, the result of a series of small but steady wins.

  As if by common consent, as each table finished the current hand, the players shoved back their chairs, stood up, and stretched. Some of them went to the bar for a drink. Others stumbled out looking like they wanted nothing more than a bed.

  Steve Drake came over to Arabella and asked in his usual hearty tone, “How about some breakfast, Bella?”

  “Don’t you ever get tired?” she asked with a slight smile.

  “Of course I do, but I get hungry, too. Right now I could use something to eat and about a gallon of coffee.”

  “Won’t that keep you awake?”

  “Nope. I’ll sleep like a baby. Always do.” He chuckled. “That’s what comes of having a clear conscience.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “All right. I’ll come with you. But I don’t have much of an appetite. I tend to eat breakfast when I get up, not before I go to bed.”

  “I just want the pleasure of your company.”

  Arm in arm, they left the saloon.

  Arabella wondered idly if Morris Upton was watching them, but all in all, it didn’t seem worth the trouble to look around and find out.

  As they started along the boardwalk, she made a face. “Ugh. It’s still hot, isn’t it? Even at this time of the morning.”

  “The heat seems to have settled in for a good long stay,” Steve Drake said. “That happens sometimes. I remember one summer when I was in Texas, the temperature was just blistering for more than a month straight. One man said that if he owned both hell and Texas, he’d live in hell and rent out Texas.”

  Arabella laughed. “I don’t think it’s quite that hot here yet.”

  “No . . . but it’s working on it.”

  The eastern sky was red and gold with the approach of the sun, but shadows still lurked in the alleys of Tombstone.

  Something stirred inside Arabella, an instinct that warned her of danger. “Steve.” She tightened her grip on his arm, pulled back a little, and forced him to stop.

  At that same exact instant, a gun roared in the alley they were about to pass and a tongue of flame licked from its muzzle. Arabella gasped as a slug whined through the air an inch or two in front of their faces.

  If they hadn’t stopped when they did, one or possibly both of them would have been hit.

  Drake reacted instantly. In the blink of an eye, he produced a gun from somewhere under his coat, pushed Arabella behind him, and returned the shot.

  Between the still dim light and the shock of being ambushed, she couldn’t see very well, but she thought she spotted a shadowy figure at the far end of the alley.

  Another muzzle flash ripped through the gloom, and Drake fired a second time from his crouch.

  The would-be killer darted out of sight.

  Drake grated a curse. “Get back in the saloon where you’ll be safe, Arabella.”

  She clutched at his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going after that varmint.”

  “Steve, no!” She held on tighter to him. “He’ll kill you.”

  “Nobody takes a shot at you and gets away with it, Bella.”

  “But he’s gone now. I’m safe.”

  “We don’t know that. He could still be lurking.”

  “Let’s find the sheriff or one of his deputies. This is a job for them, not us.”

  Drake looked like he wanted to pull a
way from her, but with a grimace, he nodded and put his pistol away, sliding the weapon back into a holster under his left arm. “People are coming now to see what the shooting was about. I doubt if the bushwhacker will make another try for us with witnesses around.”

  “Steve . . . was he shooting at you . . . or me?”

  Drake frowned in thought and shook his head. “Now that’s a question I just can’t answer, Bella.”

  * * *

  Slaughter was about to go into the dining room of the American Hotel for his breakfast when he heard the shots coming from somewhere else in town. Four of them, and they came relatively fast and close together.

  But from two different guns, he judged, and that meant a fight.

  He sighed and turned away from the dining room entrance. Moving quickly through the hotel lobby, he went out onto the boardwalk.

  People were already out and about despite the early hour. Slaughter saw several of them running along the street and figured they were headed for the source of the shooting. The guns had fallen silent after that flurry of reports. He hoped that didn’t mean he would find dead men lying in the street.

  He didn’t see any bodies as he approached a knot of people near the mouth of an alley. He raised his voice as he came up behind them. “I say, what’s going on here?” he demanded.

  The crowd parted in response to his commanding tone. They had been gathered around a man and a woman, both of whom looked familiar to him.

  “Sheriff Slaughter,” the man said. “It’s good to see you again, although not so much under the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances are those, Mr. Drake?” Slaughter had searched his memory quickly for the man’s name and had recalled his brief conversation with these two a couple days earlier.

  “Someone took some shots at Lady Arabella and myself,” Drake said.

  “Are either of you hurt?”

  “No, thank goodness, but it wasn’t for lack of trying on the part of the man hiding in that alley.”

  “I reckon you returned his fire.” Slaughter was certain he had heard two different guns.

  “It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Drake said coolly.