by Lee Pierce
The town’s origins dated back to 1871, when prospector Hezekiah Lucas reported a silver strike in the canyons near the Mexican border. Word of his strike rapidly reached the nearby town of Gila Bend. People looking to get rich quick poured in from all over the territory. Within weeks, the population of Lucasville, as Hezekiah chose to call it, boomed to over two thousand people. A U.S. Post Office was established, as well as a bank, three churches, six saloons, two brothels, and various other businesses.
Lucasville boomed for six months until the silver petered out. By then Hezekiah Lucas had made a small fortune selling shares to his fledgling mine. One day Lucas said he was going to San Francisco to purchase heavy-duty mining equipment to search for the silver lode he knew was there. He left and never came back.
It turned out he had salted his diggings, and there never was any silver to speak of, at least none that came from around Lucasville. Within a short time, ninety percent of the population vacated Lucasville. A few hardy souls decided to stay and make a go of the town. The post office survived as well as the Catholic Church, one saloon, a general store, and a livery stable.
The rest of the businesses, including the bank, did not survive. The bank building remained empty for over five years until Abraham Daggett, a man with a shady past, showed up one day and reopened it. When Dan Cable showed up in Lucasville, the bank had been open for less than a year.
“Pharaoh,” said Silverjack, “this place is a ghost town. Why, there ain’t even a dog roamin’ the streets. This is just plain creepy. Where do you think all of the people are?”
“Inside with the shutters closed most likely, Jack.”
“Can’t say I blame ’em, what with all that’s gone on here in the last bunch of days. I hope the Comptons didn’t add to the damage that was already done.”
“We’ll soon find out. Here’s a saloon. Let’s see what we can rustle up. Walk soft.”
“I’ll be quiet as a church mouse on Sunday morning.”
Pharaoh walked into the saloon and sidled up to the bar. He ordered a beer. When it arrived, he turned and laid his elbows behind him on the bar. He hooked one boot heel onto the brass rail at the bottom. Diffused sunlight filtered in through dirty windows. Sawdust covered the floor. A dozen men sat at tables scattered about the place. A few of them peeked at the newcomer from under hats pulled low, but the majority did not look up. Pharaoh sipped his beer in silence and waited for Silverjack.
Jack sauntered in, stepping up to the bar about ten feet to Pharaoh’s right. He ordered a beer and a pickled boiled egg. The bartender drew a beer and slid it down the bar to Jack. He then pulled a long, two-pronged fork from under the counter and fished around in a massive glass jar filled with brownish eggs. With the deft touch of experience, he speared a big nasty- looking one, pulled it out, and laid it on a small, cracked plate, all in one smooth motion. “Amigo,” said Silverjack. “I appreciate you slidin’ my beer down the bar, but I believe you ought to walk that egg to me. I would sure hate it gettin’ smashed before I got to sink a tooth into it.”
The bartender glanced down at the egg on the plate and placed them on the bar. He drew the plate back like he had decided to slide it, anyway. A loud click brought his head up. The muzzle of a Colt .44 stared the brawny barkeep in the face.
“My name’s Silverjack McDonald,” the pistol’s owner said. “I’m a United States deputy marshal sent here to find out how come my old friend Dan Cable got shot to pieces and nobody in this damn town raised a hand to help him.”
Pharaoh stared at his fellow marshal. “So much for the church mouse,” he mumbled.
Silverjack held his six-shooter steady as the bartender shuffled toward him. By the time the man covered the distance, he was sweating like ten-year-old dynamite. His hand shook, and the pickled egg rolled all around the plate.
Jack stuck his pistol onto the end of the bartender’s nose. “Pilgrim, if you drop my lunch on this nasty floor, I will make you lick the whole damn place clean.”
The saloon got so quiet you could hear a flea fart. The bartender placed the plate on the bar and backed up to where the jar of eggs was sitting. He chanced a pleading glance at Pharaoh, fear showing in his eyes, hoping for help stopping Silverjack. Pharaoh grinned and flipped open his vest, displaying his deputy marshal’s badge. The saloon patrons sat still at their tables.
“Bein’ that you’re the bartender, amigo,” said Jack, “I expect you know everything that goes on in Lucasville. I’m askin’ you, right now, to tell me all that you know about the day Dan Cable died. I’m only askin’ one time. Do you understand?”
The bartender nodded.
“Good.” Silverjack kept his eyes on the barkeep as he addressed the patrons. “The rest of you hombres sit real quiet like you’re doin’ now. This other feller up the bar a ways is Deputy Marshal Pharaoh Smith. He’s gonna make sure nobody makes any sudden moves.”
Pharaoh nodded and pulled iron.
Silverjack laid his .44 on the bar and picked up the vinegary egg. He bit it half in two, chewed, and swallowed. He scrunched up his face. “Don’t sell many eggs, do you, barkeep?” he said. Dropping the partially eaten egg on the plate, he chugged his beer. Wiping foam from his mustache with a buckskin sleeve, he pointed at the bartender. “Commence with your story… amigo.”
Chapter 4
The bartender stuttered and coughed his way through the events that took place the day Marshal Cable was murdered. The two deputy marshals listened without comment. When the man finished, Silverjack turned to face the rest of the saloon.
“Any of you boys in here got anything to add to that story?”
A tall drink of water sitting at the back of the saloon stood and walked to the front tables. He had the look of a thirty-dollars-a-month-and-found cowboy. When he stopped, he removed his sweat-blackened hat and held it in both hands in front of him. He scrunched up the brim and began to roll it up and down.
“My name is Ollie Dunsmore. I ride for the Slash B outfit up north of here. Most of us here do. We liked Dan Cable and respected him. He was the best thing that ever happened to this town.”
The other men nodded and spoke up in agreement. The cowboy looked back at his supporters and seemed to gain confidence in what he was doing. “Those border outlaws hit town on a Sunday afternoon. Folks was enjoyin’ the nice weather, and Lucasville was near deserted. The raid was over before most anyone knew what was goin’ on. The few people who were in town got wounded or killed.” He paused like he wasn’t sure what to say next. “Two ladies were hurt real bad. They were, uh, they were…”
“We know what happened to them, Ollie.” Pharaoh spoke in muted tones. “You said they were border outlaws. How do you know that?”
“One of the wounded men, Abe Daggett, the banker, recognized the leader of the bunch when they were burnin’ the bank down. It was Carlos Macias. Everybody around these parts knows he works both sides of the border, stealing and killing. He’s a bad one. People say…”
Pharaoh raised his hand. “We know who he is. Anything else you want to add?”
Ollie nodded his head. “Yes, sir. We gave Marshal Dan a real nice funeral. Ol’ Mose, too. Mose Kincaid was an old, wore-out cowboy Marshal Dan kept around as a sort of deputy.” He rolled up his hat until it resembled a wad of greasy black rags. “Uh, sorry, marshals. Sometimes I talk too much.” His eyes darted around, not focusing on any one thing.
“Where’s the banker now?” Silverjack asked. He lowered his six-shooter into his holster and glanced back at the bartender, who was still keeping as much distance between himself and Jack as he could.
“He’s at Doc Prater’s,” blurted the bartender.
“I’ll show you where that’s at,” Ollie said, punching some shape back into his hat.
“Just tell us. We’ve got another errand for you.”
After the cowboy gave out the directions, Pharaoh
sent him to the edge of town to bring Tom Raines to the doctor’s office.
On the way to Dr. Prater’s, Silverjack fingered the scar on his face. “Pharaoh, I’m wonderin’ if this was a bank robbery turned nasty or somethin’ else a whole lot different.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Maybe Dan did get killed tryin’ to protect this town, but somethin’ else is gnawin’ at my gut, and I can’t quite figure out what it is. It’s damn distracting.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. The name Carlos Macias ought to spark a memory, but nothing has popped up yet. Maybe we’ll find out more when we talk to the banker.”
They reached the doctor’s office, knocked, and went inside. A ten-by-ten room contained an old, scarred wooden desk, a cane-backed chair, a small coal oil lamp, and not much else. A doorway on the left opened into another room. A man of about thirty stood in the doorway. He was tall with an average build. An unruly shock of dark brown hair covered the top of his head. “We need to talk to the doc,” said Silverjack.
“I’m Samuel Prater,” said the man. “What can I do for you?”
“Doc Prater?”
“Yes, I’m Dr. Prater. If you need something, tell me. I have many injured people to take care of.”
“Sorry, Doc. I figured you would be older.” Silverjack introduced himself and Pharaoh and asked to talk to Abe Daggett.
“All right,” said Dr. Prater, rubbing his fingers on his forehead. “My nurse is with him right now. His wounds will heal, but he needs rest. You can have five minutes with him, no more.”
“Yes, sir, Doctor,” Pharaoh said, taking his hat off. “Five minutes will be plenty.”
He nudged Silverjack and darted his eyes at his hat. Jack glanced up and frowned at Pharaoh, making no attempt at removing his headgear. Pharaoh shook his head and started into the back of the building. Silverjack grinned at the doctor and followed Pharaoh.
Four men lay in narrow cot-like beds in a large room. There were two empty beds. All of the men were bandaged on various parts of their bodies. Abe Daggett lay in a smaller room directly back of the large room. The door to the room was open. The marshals stepped inside. A withered-looking little man lay on the only bed in the room. He stared at the ceiling as the nurse dressed a wound on his chest.
The young nurse was dressed in tan duck pants and a loose-fitting calico shirt. She wore a sleeveless white smock over her clothes. Her blond hair was tied up in a neat bun. She seemed oblivious to the room’s new occupants.
Pharaoh cleared his throat. “Pardon me, ma’am. My name is Pharaoh Smith, and this is Jack McDonald. We are United States Marshals, and we need to talk to Mr. Daggett for a few minutes.”
“Did Samuel—Dr. Prater—say it was okay?” she said without looking up.
“Yes, ma’am, he did.”
“Very well. I’m finished with Mr. Daggett’s dressing. You have two minutes, then it’s out of here.”
“The doc said we could have five minutes with him,” Silverjack said, throwing out his best “for the ladies” smile.
A glare that would melt granite greeted his efforts. “Two minutes and you are out of here.”
Jack lowered his gaze. “Yes, ma’am,” squeaked from his pursed lips.
Never looking back, the nurse walked into the bigger room and headed toward the closest patient. Pharaoh rolled his eyes and, stifling a grin, approached the shrunken man lying in front of him. “Mr. Daggett, I’m a U.S. marshal, and I would like to ask you a few questions about the raid.”
Abe Daggett looked at Pharaoh and nodded his head.
“Mr. Daggett, you are the banker, correct?” asked Pharaoh.
“Yes, marshal.” Abe Daggett’s voice was strong and clear.
Where were you when the raid took place?”
“I was in the bank—working on some important paperwork—when I heard a ruckus outside in the street. The bank was locked, but the safe was open. I had just removed some papers from the vault. I quickly closed and locked the safe and hurried to the front window to see what all the commotion was about. I, er, uh… excuse me, marshal, but will you please hand me that glass of water on the table? Since the fire, I can’t seem to drink enough water.”
Silverjack handed him the water, and he gulped it down like he’d been in the desert for a long time. “Um, thank you,” he said. “Let me see… oh, yes, as I said, I looked out the window just in time to see a man hurling a flaming torch at the bank. I jumped back as the torch hit the window. The glass didn’t break, and I ran to my office. When I reached my door, I turned to see a man break the front window—with his rifle I think—and throw the torch inside.” The banker took a breath and sighed. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m a little shook up retelling that horrible incident.” He drank some more water.
“We get the picture, Mr. Daggett,” said Pharaoh. “How did you get wounded?”
“Yes, of course, I must tell you that.” Daggett seemed to be getting a little nervous. “I tried to retrieve some important papers that were on my desk, and before I could get out the back door, I was overcome with smoke and lost consciousness. When I came to, I was in this bed with a bullet wound in my side. I don’t know how it got there.”
“You were shot, but you don’t know when or how,” said Silverjack.
“That is what I said,” snapped Daggett.
“Your two minutes are long over,” said the nurse. She had slipped into the room unnoticed a few moments before. Pharaoh tried to ask another question, but the nurse wouldn’t hear of it. She shooed them out to the doctor’s office. Dr. Prater was sitting at his desk as they scooted by.
“Sometimes I wonder who’s running my office, gentlemen,” the doc said, grinning. “Have a nice day.”
They stepped out onto the porch. Silverjack scratched the back of his neck and frowned. “Well, if that young lady ain’t a pistol,” he said, “I don’t know what is.”
“She’s sure protective of her patients, all right,” said Pharaoh. “Maybe a little too protective.”
“What do you mean, pardner?”
“I can’t put my finger on it, but she seemed to show up just when it looked like we might get something of importance out of the banker.”
“Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Silverjack. “You know, ol’ Daggett didn’t tell us much we didn’t already know.”
Pharaoh shook his head and started to say something when Ollie Dunsmore showed up with Tom Raines. The bare-footed bounty hunter slid off the back of Dunsmore’s horse. He hopped and skipped gingerly over the rock-strewn street.
“If you ain’t a sight, Tom,” said Silverjack, grinning. “We need to get you some boots.”
Tom grimaced as he stepped on a sharp pebble. “I don’t have no money, Jack. You want to lend me some?”
“No, but I’ve got a spare pair of moccasins in my saddlebags that might fit you okay. You need some clothes, too.”
Ollie spoke up. “This here Negro feller looks like he’s real close to Marshal Dan’s size. All the marshal’s belongings are bundled up at the church. I could go get ’em if you want me to.”
“Do that,” said Pharaoh.” We’ll be in the saloon.”
Silverjack dug the moccasins out of his saddlebags and gave them to Tom. The bounty hunter slipped them on, and the three of them tromped to the saloon.
Silverjack was the first one through the door. “Draw three beers, barkeep,” he hollered.
The bartender frogged when Silverjack yelled and dropped a whiskey glass he was wiping. The shot glass hit the hardwood floor and shattered into a dozen pieces. Ignoring the tiny slivers of glass, the bartender made haste to draw the beers. He had two ready and was filling the third when he looked up at the three approaching men. Seeing Black Tom, he froze, not moving until the cold beer overflowed and coursed down his sleeve. He sat the mug down and looked at
the trio. “Say, we don’t serve nig—”
Silverjack’s .44 jumped into his hand. “I appreciate you keepin’ your mouth shut, barkeep. This is Tom Raines, just about the meanest bounty hunter in Arizona. He don’t care for people who call other folks insultin’ names. Makes him madder ’n hell. I reckon I just saved your life. You owe me. Don’t you think?”
The bartender swallowed the tobacco he was chewing and nodded.
“You give us those three beers, and I’ll call it even. Take ’em to a back table, and make sure the chairs are dusted off.”
The bartender’s face began to turn green from the effects of the ingested tobacco, but he scurried to a table, placed the beers on top, and wiped down the chairs. Suddenly, his head shot up, and a gurgling sound erupted from his stomach. He beelined it to the door, running into two patrons in the process. His retching could be heard all the way to the back of the saloon.
“Looks like that feller can’t handle his tobacco,” Silverjack said, chugging half of his beer.
All right,” said Pharaoh, “let’s get down to the reason we came here. The wounded men seem to be well taken care of, and except for the two unfortunate ladies, the rest of the townspeople don’t look too much the worse for wear. I say we sit and wait for the Cavalry.”
“As soon as I get some clothes, I’m taking off after the Compton Brothers.” Black Tom spat out the words. “That cowboy told me they hightailed it toward Mexico once they found out the marshal was dead.”
“That was a damn strange thing to do,” said Silverjack, tracing his scar. “What do think they did with the outlaws’ bodies?”
Pharaoh sipped his beer. “Couldn’t say, Jack, but headed south, I doubt the Comptons hauled any excess baggage along.”
Black Tom’s eyes lit up. “Maybe they buried them somewhere on the trail to Mexico. Hell, I bet I could find the bodies and still collect the reward. Jack, come with me. You’ve got the best smeller I ever saw. Help me and I’ll split the bounty. It’ll be like old times.”
