“No, sir,” Claude replied. “I ain’t got no ideas about nothin’.”
“Good,” Slade said. “You’ll live a lot longer that way.” He was content to leave the boy unharmed, since he made no show of standing up for his father. “Now reach back there and give me a key to room number four.”
Puzzled because he knew that his father had put the two outlaws in room two, Claude said, “We ain’t usin’ that room. What do you wanna get in that room for?”
“Boy, you’re already startin’ to get on my nerves,” Slade warned him. “I know who’s in that room. Gimme the damn key.”
“There ain’t nobody in room four,” Claude insisted. He pointed to an empty letter slot behind him. “There ain’t even no key in the box.”
“You lyin’ little bastard,” Slade growled. He grabbed Claude by the shirt collar and jerked him halfway across the counter. “That bitch Mary Lou lives in that room. There ain’t no key there because she’s got it.”
“No, she don’t,” Claude cried. “I swear she don’t.”
Confused by Slade’s assertion, and growing more frightened by the minute, he tried to pull away from the outlaw’s grasp. Slade shoved him violently, dumping him on the floor behind the desk. Amused by the confrontation between Slade and the boy, Sanchez stopped halfway up the steps and waited there to watch the outcome. Unnoticed by Claude or Slade, he eased his .44 out of his holster.
Leaving the boy lying on the floor behind the desk, Slade turned to follow Sanchez up the stairs. “I don’t need a damn key,” he announced angrily, unaware that Claude had reached for the bottom drawer of the desk where a revolver was always kept.
Intent all along to take vengeance upon the men who shot his father if given the opportunity, Claude slowly eased the drawer open and pulled the gun out. With his hand trembling with fear, he aimed it at the back of the man starting up the stairs and pulled the trigger.
At almost the same time, another shot rang out, this one from Sanchez, who anticipated such a possibility when Slade turned his back on the boy. The bullet slammed into the middle of Claude’s chest, knocking him flat on his back. Slade, startled, dropped to his knees on the stairs after Claude’s shot whistled harmlessly by his ear.
Furious at having come so close to taking a bullet in the back, Slade pulled his pistol and pumped three shots in the already dying boy. He turned then to unleash his fury on a grinning Sanchez.
“Damn you,” he roared. “What the hell were you waiting for? I oughta shoot you for lettin’ him get that shot off!”
“You oughta try,” Sanchez replied, his .44 resting on the stair rail, his sinister grin still in place. He was obviously amused by his partner’s flustered response to the near miss and, as usual, was ready to shoot again if Slade was foolish enough to let his anger get the best of him.
Smart enough to realize that Sanchez held the advantage, Slade forced himself to calm down. “Well, I reckon I shoulda been more careful about turnin’ my back on the kid. I shoulda known he might wanna get back at me for shootin’ his pa.”
“He so damn scared he couldn’t hold his hand steady enough to hit the side of the wall,” Sanchez said. “I not worried about him hitting you.”
“That’s damn reassurin’,” Slade said sarcastically. “Maybe next time it’ll be the other way around.” Bringing his mind back to the moment, he looked around the tiny lobby as if searching for bystanders, realizing then that the hotel was deserted. “We might as well take a look in the safe while we’re at it.”
He went back behind the desk and rolled Claude’s body away from the small built-in safe.
“Damn,” he cursed. It was unlocked and empty of all cash and valuables. He knelt there staring into the empty safe for a long moment, before getting to his feet and stating, “Well, I’m gonna go pay a little visit to Miss Mary Lou. I can’t keep her waitin’ much longer.”
Sanchez grunted derisively. “I expect she excited as hell.”
They went up the stairs to the second floor, continuing on past the door to room two before Slade stopped. “Where the hell are you goin’?”
Surprised, Sanchez said, “With you. You think you’re the only one who got needs?”
“I’ll be damned,” Slade replied. “This is between the woman and me. Hell, you ain’t even talked to her.”
“I ain’t talked to my horse,” Sanchez retorted, “but I still ride him.”
“I don’t need no company,” Slade told him. “So you just go on in our room and I’ll tell you when I’m done. Then I don’t care what the hell you do with her.”
Sanchez shrugged, indifferent, as he was about most things that pertained to killing, robbing, or women. “If that’s the way you want it. You might need some help, though. She don’t act like she’s saddle-broke.”
“Just wait for me in the room,” Slade told him. Sanchez shrugged again and went into the room.
Slade waited until Sanchez had closed the door behind him before continuing down the hall to a door with the number four on it. Preferring to surprise Mary Lou if possible, he slowly turned the knob and pressed against the door, but it was locked.
“Damn!” he muttered lowly, and knocked politely. When there was no response from inside, he knocked a little harder. Still there was no response.
At once angry, he banged on the door with his fist and yelled, “Open this damn door, bitch!” He pictured her huddled in a corner, or behind the bed, praying that he would go away.
“Damn you! I’ll break this door down!” Still there was nothing from inside the room. “It’s just gonna be tougher on you,” he warned. His temper out of control then, he stepped back, then slammed the door with his boot, as hard as he could manage. The door cracked but did not give way, so he repeated it again and again until the lock gave way and the door swung open.
Angry, but not to the point where he gambled with his personal safety, he stepped back to the side when the door opened. With his pistol drawn, in the event she might be waiting with a gun pointed at him, he entered the room cautiously, looking right and left quickly, trying to see every corner where she might be waiting to ambush him. It struck him then that this was not her room and never had been. There was an odor of charred wood, and the room was dusty. The faint light from the oil lamp in the hallway shining through the open door revealed a large circle of burned-out floor where a stove had once sat.
“That lyin’ bitch,” he muttered, thinking of Maggie Whitehouse. “You just signed your death warrant, old lady.”
Determined to find Mary Lou, he proceeded back up the hall, kicking in doors at each room he came to, his amorous mood replaced by the desire to punish. Sanchez came out of their room with gun drawn.
Seeing Slade storming around the corner to search the other hall, he bellowed, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“They lied!” Slade complained. “She ain’t in that room. I’ll kill her when I find her, that old bitch, too!”
Slade’s frustration brought a smile of amusement to Sanchez’s face, and he followed along behind him as the enraged man destroyed door after door. All of the guest rooms were empty, having been evacuated when Arthur Campbell warned his guests of the possibility of the danger that might befall the hotel. While Slade ranted and raved, Sanchez took the opportunity to rummage through the various possessions that were carelessly left behind during the speedy exodus. He was disappointed to find nothing of value, however, with the exception of a man’s pocket watch left on a dresser.
With no sign of Mary Lou on the second floor, Slade went back down to search the owner’s living quarters on the first floor behind the lobby. His search was no more successful than before. Still angry, but calmer now, he said, “You know damn well she lives in this hotel somewhere. I hardly expect she moved out this quick.”
Still highly amused by Slade’s frustrations, Sanchez suggested an area t
hat had not occurred to his partner. “There’re a couple of rooms behind the kitchen. Maybe that’s where them two women live.”
“Yeah,” Slade responded. “Damn right.” The realization of the possibility brought a determined smile to his face. “That’s where they are.”
He kicked Arthur Campbell’s favorite rocking chair out of his way and started back toward the lobby.
“Let’s go call on the ladies,” he told Sanchez.
• • •
Gunshots temporarily interrupted a quickly convened meeting at the small freight office of Sam Vickers.
“Those shots came from the hotel,” Gordon Luck said. He stepped to the window and peered up the street. “They’ve gone back to the hotel and it sounds like they ain’t through with their killin’. We need to see if the women in the dining room are all right.” His main concern was for Mary Lou. “If we don’t do something, and I mean pretty damn quick, they’re gonna destroy the whole town.”
His words were unnecessary, for each one of the six men who had responded to his call for action knew that what he said was true. Two of them, Douglas Green and Benny Swartz, were there out of guilt, determined to atone for their failure to support their slain neighbors earlier in the evening.
“With two of our people dead,” Gordon continued, “and two others wounded, we can’t hide behind our closed doors any longer. We’ve got to save our town.”
He nodded toward Marvin Bloodworth, who had come to the sawmill to tell him that the two killers were looking for his father and Arthur Campbell with the intention of finishing them off.
“It’s time to move now. You all heard what Marvin said. I just hope we’re not too late to keep them from killing anyone else.”
“What are we waitin’ for?” Sam exclaimed. “I’m ready. Let’s go get the bastards!”
Armed with handguns and rifles, plus the belief that the fate of the town hinged upon their actions on this night, the six men filed out of the freight office and hurried toward the hotel.
• • •
Pausing for just a moment to decide which of the two rooms behind the kitchen might likely be the one occupied by Mary Lou, Slade speculated that hers was probably not the one closest to the dining room. That, he figured, was probably Maggie Whitehouse’s, since she managed the dining facility.
Without bothering to knock this time, he tried the door before kicking it in to bang noisily against the wall.
“Ain’t no use you hidin’,” he called out, cautiously extending his arm in the open doorway, holding the lantern he took from the hallway.
When there was no answer from within, he pushed a little farther inside the door. There appeared to be no one in the darkened room. Holding the lantern before him, he looked around the room, convinced that it was, indeed, her room, judging by the articles of clothing on the bed and the personal trinkets on a dresser.
He started to leave, but stopped when it occurred to him that she might be hiding under the bed. “Ha!” he exclaimed, grabbed a corner of the bed, and turned it upside down. Finding nothing under the bed but a wooden box with a couple of blankets inside, he looked about him for something to vent his anger upon. The closest object was a basin with a pitcher inside, sitting on a dry sink. In a fit of rage, he reached out and raked the pitcher off the sink, sending it and the pitcher crashing to the floor.
“Must be next door,” Sanchez offered dryly, having become weary of Slade’s passionate pursuit of the woman, and amused by the angry man’s display of temper.
The sound of the intruders next door was easily heard by the two women who had taken refuge in Maggie’s room. Huddled in the corner of the room, beside the dry sink, Mary Lou and Maggie cringed in fear, hoping that the two killers would go away after breaking into Mary Lou’s room and finding it empty. In case they didn’t, they had pulled Maggie’s heavy chest of drawers over before the door. And if that didn’t stop them, the women were ready to defend themselves, Maggie with her shotgun and Mary Lou with her revolver. There was nothing more they could do at this point, but wait and pray, each woman’s heart beating so loudly that she feared it could be heard in the hall outside. In the next instant, both hearts stopped for a terrified moment when they heard the crash of a boot against the door.
When the doorjamb finally split and the door opened an inch or two, only to be stopped by the chest of drawers, it brought a satisfied smile to Slade’s face. “We found ’em,” he told Sanchez
“I found you!” he called out loudly. “And now you’re gonna find out what happens to bitches that waste my time.” He pressed his shoulder against the door and pushed. The chest moved a few inches. “Gimme a hand,” he told Sanchez.
The sullen Sanchez stepped up beside him and the two of them strained against the door until they succeeded in shoving the chest a few feet backward before it toppled over. It was now much more difficult to move any farther since it was flat on the floor. Still, there was enough room to get through the partially opened door.
Unable to wait any longer, Slade threw caution to the wind and pushed through the opening. He stood triumphantly for a moment, staring into the dark room, trying to locate the cowering women. It was only for a moment, however, for in the next instant, he was blinded by the muzzle flash of Maggie’s shotgun, knocking him backward against the doorjamb.
Reeling from the blast of buckshot that tore holes in his face and chest, he was saved only when Sanchez grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him out of the room—but not before a bullet from Mary Lou’s revolver caught him in the leg.
Being careful not to expose his body, Sanchez reached inside the door and emptied his .44 into the darkness, with no idea if he was hitting anyone or not. He hurried to reload as Slade staggered back into the hallway, too stunned to draw his weapon, but still on his feet. He was about to fire six more shots into the room when the door from the back of the kitchen opened and he found himself facing a group of vigilantes, led by Gordon Luck. The outlaws and vigilantes alike were stunned by the sudden confrontation, and both parties fired wildly. Those behind Luck scrambled back to take cover as Sanchez’s .44 tore chunks out of the door. It gained him time enough to help Slade down the hall and through the outside door.
“Let’s get outta here!” he shouted, backing away while still covering the kitchen door with his pistol. He took a hard look at Slade then. “That shotgun sure make a mess of you. You gonna make it?”
“Damn right,” Slade said. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna wait around here for no necktie party.” Through sheer willpower alone, the wounded man stayed on his feet, knowing that if he didn’t, he would surely be left behind.
“Get to the horses, then,” Sanchez ordered. “I’ll keep these boys busy while you saddle ’em.” He paused, still keeping his eye on the kitchen door. “You can saddle ’em, can’t you?”
He would have left Slade to fend for himself if his horse had been already saddled, but he found himself in a tight situation. He couldn’t hold off the vigilantes and saddle his horse at the same time, so he had to trust that Slade could get it done. He took his eye off the door just long enough to see that Slade was painfully making his way toward the hotel stables. Then he turned back in time to see it being slowly eased open. A couple of quick shots caused the men inside to slam shut again. Thinking that would hold them at bay for a few minutes, he backed away toward the stable.
Inside the kitchen, the citizen’s posse was temporarily stymied, unable to open the door without exposing themselves to the outlaws’ gunfire. They looked to Gordon Luck to decide what to do.
“They’re gonna try to run for it,” Gordon said. “So they’ll be headin’ for the stables for their horses. We’ve got to get to some cover where we can get a clear shot at the stable door. If we hurry, we can get there before they have a chance to saddle up.”
“What about Maggie and Mary Lou?” Benny asked. “We need to
see if they’re all right. There was a helluva lot of shootin’.”
“That’s right,” Gordon replied hurriedly, chastising himself for having forgotten about the women. “We need to make sure they’re safe.”
He moved close to the door again and slowly eased it open a few inches. When there was no immediate gunfire from the hallway, he gradually pushed it the rest of the way.
“They’ve run for the stable!” he exclaimed, and turned to issue his orders. “Sam, you take Benny and Douglas and go see ’bout the women. The rest of us will go out the front door and try to get around back to catch ’em before they can get away.”
There was no hesitation on the part of either party.
“Maggie!” Sam Vickers called from the hallway. “Are you all right?” In case she didn’t recognize his voice, he yelled, “It’s me, Sam Vickers. Are you women okay?”
“Yeah, we’re all right, but they ain’t.” Maggie answered from the darkened room, more confident than frightened now. In a moment, she and Mary Lou came to the door, both holding their weapons before them triumphantly. “We shot one of ’em for sure. I don’t know how bad, but I reckon we showed those two bastards that it ain’t good for their health to mess with us,” she boasted.
“Best for you to stay right here till we take care of those two killers,” Sam told them. “We just wanted to make sure you were all right.” He turned to Benny and Douglas. “Come on, boys, let’s get to the stables to help Gordon.”
While Sam, Douglas, and Benny followed the trail of bloodstains down the hallway to the outside door, Gordon Luck led the other two out the front door of the dining room and hustled around to the stables.
“Come on, boys,” he exhorted them to hurry. “We’re doin’ the Lord’s business, slayin’ the evildoers in His name.”
“Amen,” Harold Chestnut, the postmaster, sang out, responding to the Baptist minister’s urging, much as he did on Sunday mornings in the partially finished church.
Crow Creek Crossing Page 16
