Stringer and the Hanging Judge

by Lou Cameron

  “You’d build more credit with your distant relations if you went yourself, Roy,” Stringer said. “Even if little Sam fails to get hurt, sending a boy on a man’s errand could be taken the wrong way by some.”

  “You go, then,” young Bean said. “I got to strap on some hardware and have it out with One Thumb Brown. The son of a bitch might have waited until Dad died afore he defied us open, cuss his mother and aunts!”

  “Goddamn it,” Stringer said, “stop and study on this before you go rushing in blind, mayhaps expected. I’ll go see what’s going on behind the hotel. I have to pick up my jacket in any case, and I somehow feel Gordo and his gang would be more likely to listen to you than me.” Then, seeing the youth was just standing there, undecided, he snapped, “Let’s move her out, Roy. I’ll meet you back here in say an hour or so. That should give us time to warn the folk in shantytown and find out what we’re warning them about.”

  Young Bean nodded. “You go ahead, then. I’ll get my guns and circle south, like you said.”

  Having told the youth not to waste time, Stringer had to nod and light out for the hotel. As he covered the short stretch afoot, he only saw one pony tethered out front. So those Double W riders had circled round to the back, as they’d said they might.

  There was nobody in the lobby. Stringer moved up the stairs to find the door of his hired honeymoon suite ajar. That was a thing to ponder. So he drew his .38 and moved in casually. The oil lamp near the bed was lit. That hardly seemed right for an ambush. As he eased through the doorway, he spotted a red dustmop handle leaning against the bedstead. A mighty fine female rump was sticking out at him near the floor. If it belonged to a chambermaid, she had her fool head and shoulders under the bed for some reason.

  Stringer put his gun away before he cleared his throat. “Lose something, ma’am?” he asked.

  The girl gave a little gleep and crawfished back out, her tawny face blushing as red as her Mex features could manage. She was pretty as any sort of gal usually got and he figured her for eighteen or so, knowing he had to allow for Anglo gals looking a mite younger at any given age. Had the maid been Anglo, he’d have figured her for twenty-odd. She said, “Por favor, señor, I thought you had checked out, until I saw your bag in the corner and your jacket in the wardrobe. I decided as long as I was here, I might as well dust and fix the bell.”

  He moved across the room to get his jacket as he asked her, casually, whose odd notion said bell had been. She looked away as she murmured, “Senor Brown, the owner. He has most droll ideas of humor, no?”

  Stringer slipped on his jacket. “He must be a bundle of laughs to work for. How did you like my little joke under the bed, ah…?”

  “I am called Ramona,” she said. “I thought you were most clever. I was trying to decide whether to connect the string to the bedsprings again, just now.”

  “Did you?”

  “Pero no. Señor Brown told me for to find out why things were so quiet up here. He did not say for to fix anything, and I do not think it would be fair to you and your mujer, señor.”

  He chuckled wryly. “I figure on sleeping alone tonight, Lord willing and I don’t get lucky. What time do you get off?”

  She gasped. “Señor! Is that any way for to talk to an honest working girl?”

  “Just funning,” he said. “It must be catching around here. Would I be able to find your boss in that new saloon out back right now?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, one bare and one covered by her thin cotton blouse. “Quien sabe? I only work here. Señor Brown asked me if I would like to work in his cantina, but I said no. Is going to be much trouble over that cantina, I think.”

  “You could be right,” Stringer said. “Did you figure it out on your own, or have your people been discussing it, Ramona?”

  “Both. Anyone can see it was not wise for to take on El Patron Bean while he was still alive, no?”

  He sighed. “Maybe someone got tired of waiting. It’s been nice talking to you, Ramona.” Then he flipped a quarter on the bed and ducked back out.

  Downstairs, since nobody was around to direct him, Stringer explored his way to a back hallway leading to the sound of clinking glass and hearty laughter. As he made his way into the smoke-filled erstwhile tack room, he saw another Mex gal doing a fandango in the center of the modest-sized floor, clicking her high heels like mad. The shoes were all she had on. She could have used a shave under her armpits as well, but she had a nice body, and knew it. Nobody noticed Stringer standing there. They’d have as likely missed a man with two heads, the way they were all gaping at the naked dancer.

  There wasn’t a real bar, though everyone seemed to be holding glasses. A heavyset brute with eyebrows that met in the middle was wearing a dirty apron as he presided over a big keg set on sawhorses. Stringer made his way along the rear wall until the gent in the apron met his eyes with a scowl. Stringer smiled and joined him by the keg. “Howdy. I’ll try anything you may have on tap but coal oil.”

  “It’s pulque,” the heavyset man growled. “Good stuff. I got an old Mex who makes it for me right. So you can tell your pals I don’t need no damned beer license to serve it, see?”

  “You must have me mixed up with somebody else, landlord,” Stringer said. “I’m an innocent guest in your hotel, name of Stringer MacKail.”

  The other man nodded. “I’m One Thumb Brown, in case you can’t count. I know who you are and all about you. You come to give the judge a hand, right?”

  “Wrong,” Stringer said. “I’m a roving newspaperman, here to do a piece on old Roy Bean, if ever he’s up to talking to me. I’d best add that as a rule I pick my own fights. But if you’re sore at me, just say so and I’ll bed down somewhere else.”

  One Thumb poured a glass of pulque for him, growling, “On the house, seeing you’re a guest in my hotel. I just wanted to clear the air betwixt us, MacKail. Some say you and that lady of your’n seem sort of thick with the Beans, considering how long you’ve been here. How is the old bastard, anyway?”

  Stringer accepted the pulque, sipped, and pronounced it about as good as pulque ever got before he said, “He’s in piss-poor shape, as well you must know. Of course, if his fever breaks in time, he may surprise us all. Are you saying nobody can serve beer and such in Langtry without old Bean’s permission?”

  “I never said that,” Brown said. “He did. Getting here earlier than the rest of us, the old bandit sewed up all the township positions from J.P. to postmaster for his fool self. Anyone can see it ain’t fair for a saloonkeeper to enjoy sole power to issue a town liquor license. But what’s a body to do, sue him?”

  Stringer took another sip. “That would be a chore, knowing who’d be trying the case. It does sound a mite monopolistic. On the other hand, President Roosevelt wouldn’t be raising all that hell about monopolies, back east, if a lot of old boys hadn’t always taken the view that first-come has first dibs. A heap of small towns are run much the same. Who holds title to the land Langtry sits on, the railroad?”

  One Thumb Brown looked blank, then said, “Bean owns it, I hope. I’ve been paying land rent to him for quite a spell. Are you saying he’s been skinning us that way too?”

  “It’s an interesting angle,” Stringer said. “How do I go about sending a few telegrams out of here?”

  “You don’t. The judge tried to get a Western Union franchise a spell back. They told him not to be silly. He don’t cut much ice, outside his private town.”

  There was a gleeful roar of laughter behind him, so Stringer turned his head to see the naked dancing gal had been joined by a young Mex dancing partner. He was naked, too, and they weren’t exactly dancing. Stringer grimaced and turned back to One Thumb Brown. “Are you sure the judge only turned you down for a beer license?” he asked casually.

  The owner of the whole shebang scowled. “He called me a whore monger to my very face, the old fool. Anyone can see Rosalita ain’t no whore. She’s just putting on a show for the old boys. She ain’t
screwing none of ‘em.”

  “They probably couldn’t afford it,” Stringer said dryly. Then, having spotted the hand called Sunny Jim through the smoke on the far side, Stringer finished his pulque, put down the glass with a nod of thanks, and turned to go.

  “Hey, MacKail,” One Thumb called out, “try not to get any thicker with old Bean and his whelps, hear? Some of the boys don’ seem to think much of a white man who’d side against his own kind, see?”

  Stringer stared soberly at the crowd grinning down at the Mex couple writhing on the floor before he nodded. “Don’t worry, you have my word I’m not fixing to take sides against the sort of gents I have anything in common with.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Stringer returned to the Jersey Lily with his jacket on, he found Roy Bean, Junior had beaten him back, assuming he’d ever left. “Well?” he asked, joining the youth on the porch.

  “I got them over to the far bank,” the kid said. “It wasn’t easy. Gordo and some of the others wanted to make a stand of it. But their elders made ‘em listen, seeing I was speaking for El Patron. They must not know how sick Dad is. Lord knows how I’ll ever control ‘em once he’s gone.”

  “Showing them some loyalty, just now, might have been a good beginning,” Stringer said. “I just had a look-see at your new competition. I saw more of a gal called Rosalita than I likely should have, seeing I’ll be sleeping alone later.”

  Young Bean snickered. “I know the puta you mean. If you have two bits to spare, talk to her pimp, Garcia, and you won’t have to sleep alone. You’ll wake up with the clap. But some must think it’s worth it, seeing how many old boys Rosalita has clapped up so far.”

  Stringer made a wry face. “I reckon I’ll pass on such a romantic notion, for now. How’s your father coming along?”

  “I was just fixing to take a look,” young Bean said. “Zulema got some chicken soup down him tonight, at least. She says he ain’t as fever-browed either.”

  Stringer followed the youth inside. The lamps in the front had been trimmed, seeing nobody seemed to be dropping by after all. But a globe lamp was lit in the sickroom, and as they entered, old Roy Bean was propped up in bed, looking something like a weary Santa Claus who was glad to be home after all that sleigh driving. He opened one watery eye to say “Howdy, son” in a lucid voice. Then he spotted Stringer and demanded, “Who might this stranger be, and how come you let him back to my quarters with a damned gun on his hip?”

  “He’s on our side, Dad,” his son soothed. “Name’s MacKail.”

  The old man raised an eyebrow. “Scotchman, huh? We’ll see about that.” Then he asked Stringer, “Comair e tha thu?”

  Stringer replied, more politely, “Tha mi ga math, agus sibh?`’

  Old Bean chuckled. “He’s Scotch. Damned if I got all of it. Never got much past saying howdy in the Gaelic. Which side was your clan on in the ‘45, MacKail?”

  “The right side, of course,” Stringer said. “Didn’t Clan MacBean fight under Lochiel when the Macintosh was afraid to come out against the Sasunnach that last time?”

  The old man shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. I left home afore they could pound all that old country stuff into me right. Wasn’t you here earlier, along with Miss Langtry?”

  Stringer nodded. “I fear you were a mite confused at the time, Your Honor. It wasn’t Lillie Langtry you were talking to.”

  The old man sighed wistfully. “I surely must have been out of my fool head. It was so real, I could have sworn she was setting right beside me on this very bed.” Then he quickly added, “With all her duds on, you understand. Miss Langtry ain’t no bawd. She’s a lady of quality. Let me show you the fine set of shooting irons she sent me one time. Where’s my damned guns, Junior?”

  “We’ve put them away, Dad,” his son said gently. “I know you didn’t know it was Zulema and Sam you was throwing down on. But it scared them, anyways.”

  “Scaring never hurt nobody,” Roy Bean said. “Builds character. I ain’t too sick to know what I’m aiming at now, boy. Get ‘em out again so’s I can show this highland laddie what Miss Langtry bestowed upon us.”

  As his son ducked out of the room with a resigned sigh, the old man told Stringer, “They’re heirlooms, you know. Someday, after I’m gone, my grandchildren will still get to admire ‘em.”

  Stringer stepped closer and placed a palm on the old man’s brow. “Take it easy or you might not live to see your grandchildren, Your Honor. You do seem a mite better now, but it’s not smart to take chances with galloping pneumonia.”

  “Is that what I’m down with?” the sick old man asked. “I’ll be switched. I thought I was getting over that beating they gave me in San Antone. You should have seen us, MacKail. There must have been a corporal’s squad of the bastards, and I was still holding my own till some son of a bitch got me from behind.”

  “Your kids told me someone jumped you good in San Antone,” Stringer said. “I want you to think before you answer and, well, try to stick to the bare facts. In your opinion, were you attacked because someone wanted your life or just your money?”

  Roy Bean frowned. “Hard to say. I’d spent most of the cash I had on me by that time, and since you demand the truth, I can’t swear I was cold sober. On the other hand, if they’d been out to kill me entire, how come I ain’t dead?”

  It was a good question. “Someone tried to kill me on my way to here, and I’m still alive,” Stringer said. “Maybe you were left for dead in that alley. Not many men your age could be expected to survive such a beating.”

  Bean sat up straighter. “That’s true. I’m tough as hell. But why in thunder would somebody want you dead and me dead when the two of us just met this minute?”

  “I don’t know,” Stringer said. “I was hoping you might. Can you think of anything someone might not want you saying to a newspaperman, Your Honor?”

  Bean grinned crookedly. “I doubt your paper would print the words I have for them sneaky shitheads as ganged up on me so yaller dog disgusting. But if you mean afore they done us both so mean, the answer would have to be no. I could tell you tales of a few years back that would curl your hair and likely get me hung. But there’s been no trouble here in Langtry since, say, the turn of the century. Me and my pals took care of all the bad hombres in these parts in the last century.”

  Bean’s son came back in with the nicely tooled bus-cadero rig with an ivory handled ‘74 in each holster. “There you go,” the old man said. “Put the rig on and show us how nice she hangs, son.”

  “It don’t hang good on me, Dad,” the younger Bean said. “I got some growing to do before I can keep this belt around my hips, buckled as tight as she’ll go.”

  The old man held out a hand for the rig. “Well, you got as good a belt as I could have ‘em make for you, and sooner or later them guns will be yours to pack.”

  He drew one of the guns from its holster, twirled it showboat by the trigger guard, and handed it butt first to Stringer. “Feel the balance. Ain’t it lovely? Lord knows how a fine-toned English lady could know so much about guns. But she must have. Colt never made a better-balanced pistol than the good old ‘74 Peacemaker.”

  Stringer took the six-gun and held it up to the light to admire. He agreed it had nice balance. It did. It cost a lot less than Colt’s newer double-action. That was doubtless why Colt still made them, to be sold cheap. It was a good solid firearm for the general use of a man who wasn’t in much of a hurry. Few real gunfighters had packed the famous Peacemaker since both Billy the Kid and Jesse James had convinced a heap of unfortunates, over twenty years back, what an edge double-action had in a quick-draw contest.

  He handed the handsome antique back to the old man, who of course made him examine its twin. “Pay no mind to that notch on the grips, son,” old Bean said. “I nicked her pounding on the table with her at a trial out front one time. Nobody but a total asshole would carve a notch for every man he gunned, like some say in them adventure books. You boys help
me up and let’s go out back and shoot some tin cans, hear?”

  His son grabbed his shoulders as he struggled to rise. “Damn it, Dad, it’s pure dark outside, even if you was well enough.”

  “He’s right, Your Honor,” Stringer said. “You just now said you didn’t admire assholes. So how come you want to act like one?”

  The old man subsided, albeit reluctantly. “Well, I do still feel a mite tuckered. But I ain’t really sick enough to just lie here and let things go to hell in a hack.”

  “Yes you are,” Stringer said flatly. “Nothing’s going to hell or even purgatory right now. It’s getting late enough to be past your bedtime, even if you were fit as a fiddle.”

  The sick old man sighed. “I may just doze at least till sunrise. It feels like I’ve been lying here, stove up, for a month of Sundays. I got the books to go over, bills to pay, and someone might need a marriage license or something.”

  “Nobody’s fixing to marry up, and there ain’t no pending cases on your court docket, Dad,” his son said. “I’ve been taking care of the books for you. That order we sent for came in just today, and we’ve got it all put away, so—”

  “Hold on,” the old man cut in, demanding, “How did you manage my signing for them supplies if I was in dreamland with Miss Langtry, like this other young rascal says?”

  “They let me sign for the shipment, Dad,” his son said. “I told our supplier I was running the business while you was sick, and they allowed it was all right, seeing our credit has ever been good from El Paso to San Antone.”

  The old man yawned. “Wonders sure never cease in these parts. But I always figured some good might come of teaching you kids to read and write.”

  They were both too smart to answer. So after a time the old man looked asleep. His son moved to trim the lamp as Stringer eased out. But as the youth followed Stringer to the door, they both heard the old man mutter, “Hey, Junior?”

  “I’m here, Dad. What can I do for you?” his son said.