Right between the Eyes

by William W. Johnstone

  “The main thing to remember,” responded Bob, “is that it turned out okay. You two don’t have a patent on getting fooled by owlhoots. Hell, me and Buford did some wrong figuring of our own—if we hadn’t, he wouldn’t have ended up with that bullet hole in his side.”

  “That’s for damned sure,” muttered Buford. “Stinkin’ little worm like Marvin Porch—I should’ve known better than to expect a worm like him would seek out a high position to do his shootin’ from.”

  “Regardless of where he fired from,” said tall, lanky Doc Tibbs as he was bending over to put the finishing touches on the wide bandage he was applying to Buford’s side, just above his beltline, “you’re lucky his bullet didn’t hit an inch or so more toward your middle. Number one, it likely wouldn’t have passed clean through the way it did and, number two, that means it probably would have done some tumbling and tearing up of a few important internal organs.”

  “You make that sound plumb distasteful, Doc,” Buford allowed. “But on the other hand, the way you was pokin’ and proddin’ around in that bullet hole a few minutes ago wasn’t doin’ much to make me feel exactly lucky, either.”

  “Luck is a relative thing, Marshal,” said the doctor, smiling as he tied off the last tail of his bandage. “A man who falls off the side of a mountain and breaks his leg is far luckier than a man who falls off the side of that same mountain and breaks his neck . . . Wouldn’t you say?”

  This combination discussion/medical treatment was taking place in the marshal’s office of the jail building just down the street from where the recent shoot-out had occurred. Also present were Mike Bullock of Bullock’s Saloon and Frank Draeger, who ran the Shirley House Hotel with his wife Freda. Several customers from each of those establishments were milling in the street directly out front of the jail, and others were strung out up as far as to where the bodies of the victims were being gathered and loaded onto a wagon by town undertaker Titus O’Malley and his assistant. The murmur of voices coming out of the gathering was like the amplified drone of mosquitoes on a hot summer night.

  In no mood for a discussion on the philosophy of luck with the good doctor, Buford said, “All I want to know is, will this patch-up job of yours be good enough so’s I can ride out of here tomorrow like I planned?”

  “How far do you intend to go?” Tibbs asked.

  “Cheyenne. I’ve got to report in, fill out the blasted paperwork on those fugitives.” Buford paused, made a sour face. “Come to think on it, I guess I won’t be ridin’ out hardly like I planned at all. Our load will be considerably lighter than we figured on, eh Crispin?”

  “For a fact. But we still need to take back the wagon and the team.”

  Buford sighed. “Yeah. And there’ll still be the blasted paperwork.” Buford’s eye searched out Bob. “Be a big help if I can take along a sworn and signed account from you on how things went down here tonight.”

  “Be happy to. I’ll have to write up one of my own anyway,” Bob told him. “Might be in the morning before I can get it done, though. I’ve still got to take a turn around the town after we break up here.”

  “I can take care of that for you, boss,” spoke up Fred.

  “You already put in a full day. Plus you got knocked around pretty good by those varmints,” Bob reminded him. “Best you call it a night and just go ahead and—”

  “I’m fine, other than my bruised pride,” Fred protested. “I’m all revved up and not fit for sleeping nohow. Might as well walk it off and do some good in the process.” Fred was a large, heavyset man just short of thirty. The extra padding around his middle and his generally mild manner caused some folks to mistake him for being soft all over; they overlooked the spread of his shoulders, his thick wrists, and blunt-fingered, powerful hands. In his years as a deputy and now chief deputy under Bob, Fred had come a long way from the pudgy, insecure person he’d been when he first pinned on a badge. And a seldom seen—though fierce when it did rear its head—stubborn streak was part of the package.

  “Okay. If you’re sure you feel up to it,” Bob conceded.

  “I’ll be fine,” Fred assured him.

  Partway out the door, the big deputy paused and looked back. “I see O’Malley, the undertaker, is about done loading up the bodies out here. You made up your mind yet what you’re gonna want to do with ’em? He’ll likely ask me. You figure to bury ’em here, or is Marshal Morrison gonna take ’em back with him?”

  “Oh, no. We ain’t gonna have to haul a bunch of stinkin’ corpses all the way back to Cheyenne, are we?” groaned Crispin.

  Buford made a face. “Sure as hell ain’t a notion that sits any more favorably with me than you,” he said. He looked thoughtful for a minute. Then: “Far as I can recollect, ain’t none of ’em got kin anywhere around close who’d take any interest in claimin’ the bodies. Bob, you willin’ to plant ’em here on your Boot Hill? Sell their horses and gear, put whatever you get toward the burial expense, and then bill the balance to the U.S. Marshal’s office in Cheyenne. I’ll see to it you get squared up with pronto. And if any family members should happen to come ’round wanting any of the varmints, they can come here and dig ’em up. How about that?”

  “Sounds okay to me.” Bob cut his gaze to Mike Bullock. “Mike, you’re on the town council. Any objection?”

  Bullock spread his hands. “If we can’t trust the U.S. Marshal’s office, who can we? By all means, go ahead and do it that way.”

  Bob nodded. “You heard the man, Fred. Give the word to O’Malley, okay?”

  Once Fred had gone on out the door, Doc Tibbs said to Buford, “As far as your question about riding to Cheyenne with this wound, that’s mainly up to you. If you can stand the discomfort—”

  “He can,” Crispin vouched.

  “Then by all means, go ahead,” the doctor finished. “I’d ask that you stop and see me in the morning, before you head out, so I can change the dressing and make sure the bleeding is still clotted good. And then I’d recommend checking in with another doctor as soon as you get to Cheyenne.”

  “Reckon I can handle that,” Buford said, knowing full well that he probably would check with a doctor in Cheyenne only if the bullet hole was bothering him more than he expected it would be. Since this was hardly the first time he’d been shot, he had a pretty good sense of how serious this latest encounter with a chunk of lead was, and he didn’t rate it as all that bad.

  * * *

  A handful of minutes later, once the doctor had packed up his bag and taken his leave and Bob had gone out into the street to clear away the lingering gawkers, things turned quiet and peaceful in the jail office. Bullock and Draeger had also left, and Crispin, after gobbling a handful of pain pills the doctor gave him for his gout, had gone back to an empty cot in the lockup to sleep.

  Bob sat behind his desk. Buford was in a chair hitched up before it. They were passing back and forth a bottle of good bourbon that Bob had produced from a desk drawer.

  “Mighty smooth stuff you’re serving up here, barkeep,” Buford said as he handed the bottle back after taking a touch.

  “Glad you find it to your taste,” Bob responded. “Afraid I’m not a very discerning judge because, to tell you the truth, I don’t do a lot of drinking. Still, there are times . . .”

  “Like tonight.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Five men dead under our guns,” Buford mused. “They weren’t much but, still, they were men. Takin’ a human life ought not ever come easy . . . But I gotta admit, the longer I’m in this business, the less I find it botherin’ me. Especially when it comes to ambushin’ skunks like the Silases. In fact—and I know this is gonna make me sound almighty cold—for the way things turned out tonight, I’m feelin’ more sadness for those pieces of pie that got smashed in the street than I do for the men we cut down.”

  Bob cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, I have to allow as to how that does sound a mite cold.” His expression stayed blank for a minute, then it was split by a lopsided grin.
“On the other hand, that was some tasty pie.”

  Buford held out his hand and Bob handed the bottle back.

  After he’d taken a long pull and then unbent his elbow again, Buford said, “Comes to mind something else I want to comment on.”

  “Such as?”

  Buford gestured. “You. Your speed with that .44 you pack.”

  “Make for a problem?”

  “Not really. Although the Silases might have a different opinion, if they was around to spout it . . . The thing is, I’ve seen fast draws before. And God knows I’ve heard enough gut wind from those who’ve claimed to be fast. But I’ve never stood alongside anybody with lightning in their hand the way you’ve got.” Buford wagged his head. “All the times I’ve passed through here since you took on the marshal’s job, I guess I only vaguely picked up the notion you was pretty good with a shootin’ iron. ‘Sundown Bob’ I’ve heard some call you. But I also heard how you don’t like being referred to that way, so I didn’t spend much time reflecting on it. Can’t help wondering now, though, if that came from you setting the sun for a few hombres with that lightning draw of yours?”

  Bob grinned tolerantly. “That’d make a better story I reckon. Leastways for some. Truth of it ain’t nothing like that, though. It came from my flaming red hair. ‘Red as a sundown’ somebody once said, and damned if it didn’t stick—not particularly to my liking, as you already know.”

  Morrison grunted. “You’re right, my version makes a better story. Bottom line, as far as I’m concerned, remains that I somehow never got the full impression of how good and how fast you really are. Sorta caught me by surprise when I saw it on display out there a little while ago.”

  Bob shrugged. “It’s a thing that comes in handy when called for. That’s all. Don’t mean it’s something I advertise or make a big deal of. We both know what too often follows when word spreads about somebody being quick on the draw . . . That kind of attention I neither want nor need.”

  “Nobody does,” Buford said. “Trouble is, not too many who’ve got the gift—if you want to call it that—are smart enough to play it that way. Makes you a rare bird, Bob. One I’m honored to know and call a friend.”

  “I appreciate that and feel likewise about you.” Bob grinned. “Hell, I’d even drink to it if you ever hand that bottle back.”

  CHAPTER 4

  BLOODY AMBUSH IN THE STREETS

  OF RATTLESNAKE WELLS ! ! !

  Five Desperadoes Fatally Rebuked

  by Brave Lawmen

  So read the front-page headline in the Wells Gazette when it hit the street two days following the shoot-out with the Silas brothers and their freed-prisoner accomplices.

  A newspaper in Rattlesnake Wells was still a relatively new thing. It had started up right after the first of the year, the timing happening to coincide with the marriage of Bob and Consuela. In fact, the first issue of the Gazette had carried, also on its front page, a full article on the wedding. The coverage was more than warranted by the popularity of the couple, not to mention the fact that the event proved to be a town-wide shindig rivaling the recent New Year’s Eve celebration. Bob himself could have done without all the fuss and attention, but seeing the happy glow that emanated from his bride and feeling the swell of affection and pride that filled him to near bursting, even he had to admit in the end that it was a grand time well worth recording for posterity.

  In the weeks and months that followed, getting used to being married came a whole lot easier for Bob than getting used to the Gazette—or, more to the point, its publisher/editor/star reporter Owen Dutton. As Bucky had explained to Buford Morrison, having Consuela now transitioned into Mrs. Hatfield didn’t really bring about that many changes to their household since she had, in essence, already been part of the family for so long anyway. It had taken her abduction by the vile Shaw clan the prior fall and the prospect of possibly losing her forever to jolt Bob into finally fully realizing and admitting to himself his deep feelings for her (something that had been apparent to others around town all along). Once he and a select posse of men had succeeded in rescuing Consuela and another hostage from the Shaws, it hadn’t taken Bob long to confess his feelings and ask for her hand. Having never made a secret of the feelings she in turn had long harbored for Bob, the answer was an immediate yes. Initial plans to hold out for a spring wedding had quickly eroded, resulting in a ceremony just after the first of the year. No plans for a honeymoon were made, at least not any time in the foreseeable future. That part was taken care of in the privacy of Bob and Consuela’s now shared bedroom, the biggest—not to mention easiest and most pleasant—change to their prior arrangement.

  So while these adjustments were occurring on the home front, the adjustment to having a local newspaper was happening throughout the town. For the most part, it was a welcome thing. After all, a community claiming its own newspaper was a good sign—a sign of healthy growth and significance, like the spur rail line that had been put in and other positive changes that had come with the gold boom. (As opposed to the less positive things associated with Gold Avenue and the flow of lowlifes and schemers it unfortunately attracted along with those seeking only a chance to work hard in order to try and catch a lucky break.)

  It was Owen Dutton’s personality more than anything—his over-eager determination to find a story, no matter how obnoxious he had to be in order to dredge one up—that tended to rub some folks the wrong way, chief among them Marshal Hatfield. As far as the lead story in this latest edition of the Gazette, it was straightforward and accurate enough, albeit embellished with a good deal of sensationalized touches like the headline itself. That’s mainly what it came down to with Dutton and his articles: He always got his facts right, he just couldn’t keep from pushing too hard to find the most sensational angle, even in the simplest story. He did this both with his interviewing technique and then with the manner in which he wrote it down.

  A classic example of this, Bob recalled with a wry grin as he scanned the current copy Deputy Fred had shoved under his nose, was the interview Dutton had tried to conduct with Buford Morrison on the morning the federal man was getting ready to leave. Dutton had been out of town chasing what turned out to be an empty lead on some alleged cattle rustling activity the evening of the Silas shoot-out so hadn’t had the chance to start catching up with all the details until the following morning. His timing, as a result, caught Buford sore and cranky from his bullet wound, from also being a tad bit hungover, and anxious to be on his way for Cheyenne. It had taken only a few minutes of Dutton’s persistent, rapid-fire inquiry before Buford lost his patience with questions like “how did you assess the danger factor in your opponents in order to select the best sequence for you to cut them down?” or “why did you shoot to kill in every instance, rather than merely disarm?”

  “Tell you what,” Buford had interrupted with a growl. “How about I throw your ass in the back of my tumbleweed wagon—it’s all cleaned out, nice and fresh and empty—and you can ask questions all the way to Cheyenne? We’ll keep a tally. If you ask some good ones, by the time we get there you’ll have a helluva story. Not just about this here shoot-out but plenty of others that are sure to come up, too. Enough for a whole book. But if you keep askin’ dumb-ass questions like the ones you’ve been spoutin’ so far, then when we get to Cheyenne I’ll turn you over to the judge and recommend charges against you for impersonatin’ an actual journalist. You willin’ to take the gamble?”

  Not surprisingly, Dutton had turned down the offer.

  So Buford went on his way and Dutton found other sources, primarily Bob, to put together his story. As he finished reading it now, the marshal saw that it was the usual factual account, dressed up with plenty of gory details and dramatic phrasing. Not for the first time, Bob mused that wherever Dutton had done his journalism training he’d clearly found time, in addition to his scholarly reading, to devour more than a few of the action-packed dime novels of the day that were so popular throughout the country.
The influence was unmistakable in his writing.

  “Well? What do you think?” Fred asked when Bob lowered the paper.

  “Same thing I always think,” Bob answered. “In among the overwrought passages and between all the exclamation points, Dutton gets his names and facts straight.”

  “Aw, I think you’re sometimes too hard on the man, boss. I know he can be an annoying little pipsqueak from time to time, but he don’t really mean no harm. Yeah, he comes on a little strong, always trying to pump more excitement into a thing than is truly there. But, overall, he ain’t so bad. Plus he does a lot of, whatycall, human interest pieces that folks enjoy. Recipes and new babies and reports of family gatherings around town. Stuff like that.”

  Bob jabbed a thumb toward the battered old coffeepot over on the stove. “The day he prints a recipe we can follow to get a decent cup of coffee out of that thing, I will take back every uncharitable word or thought I ever had about ol’ Owen. Is that fair enough?”

  “No, it ain’t fair at all. That would be bordering on the impossible, maybe even talking about tampering with the spirit world,” Fred said stubbornly. He slapped the headlined article on the paper he was now holding. “There’s nothing here that you got any business finding fault with. He made the bad hombres look bad and us fellas fighting on the right side look good. He even downplayed the way me and Crispin got hornswoggled and ended up locked out of the fight. And you and Buford? Look there, right smack in the headline—‘Rebuked by Brave Lawmen.’ That ain’t nothing to grouse about, if you ask me.”

  “Okay, okay,” Bob said with a weary sigh. “It’s a splendid piece of journalism and deserves to be on display in a museum somewhere. Is that better? Now can we move on to other things? After all, that shooting was two days ago and it’s been awful quiet around here ever since. Not that I’m complaining exactly, but I start to get a little itchy when things are too doggone calm.”