“Samples from our claim at Spear Blade Spur,” Sam said. “We’ll give you a copy of the assayer’s report, but I’m sure you’ll want to have your own people run the tests on it to prove it out.”
The noise level on the street outside was rising markedly. Davenport glanced toward the windows, frowning.
“Handsome specimen,” he said, picking up a nugget between thumb and forefinger and holding it up to the light.
“There’s more where that came from,” Matt said, speaking up to be heard over the racket coming from Allen Street.
“How much more?” Davenport asked.
“Remains to be seen,” Sam said. “We’re prospectors, not miners. We’ve struck a vein that could be the leading head of a lode, but we need funds to do the extraction and better see what it is exactly we’ve got.”
“Are you interested in acquiring a partner or selling the claim outright?”
“It’s negotiable. Why not come out to Spear Blade Spur and see for yourself? Bring your people, your geologists and engineers. We’ve got nothing to hide. We’re an open book—”
Allen Street was in an uproar. People milled around in the street, buzzing and shouting.
“What the devil is all that fuss?” Davenport snapped.
“I’ll see what it is, Colonel,” Stebbins said, going to a window. He ducked down, sticking his head outside.
Two armed guards in civilian clothes stood at the balcony rail, staring down into the street.
“You men there! What’s happening in the street?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Stebbins,” a guard said. “Looks like a riot is breaking out!”
EIGHT
Skeets Boyar was a singing cowboy. There was nothing unusual in that. Most folks sang, in church and as a social pasttime. Many cowboys sang, especially while night-herding during long cattle trail drives.
Cattle are spooky critters. It doesn’t take much—a coyote’s howl, a gunshot—to set them off running on a wild panicked flight, creating a dangerous and costly stampede.
Dangerous, in that men and horses can go down under the thundering herd to be trampled to death; costly, because some of the fear-maddened critters are liable to run off the edge of a cliff or into a ditch, breaking their fool necks.
Or they’ll just run themselves out for miles until they drop from sheer exhaustion, having worked off in the process pounds of flesh that have been fattening up all season—and cattle is sold by the pound at the trailhead.
Cowboys learned that singing aloud while patrolling the herd had a pacifying effect on the stock, helping the animals get used to the presence of the humans and soothing their anxious nerves. So, many cowboys whiled away the night hours warbling tunes, popular songs, folk ballads, and the like.
Skeets Boyar was different. He had a good voice and genuine musical talent. He played a sweet, lyric guitar.
It was about eight-thirty that night at Ben Burnham’s Big Sky Saloon, located on a side street at the edge of Tombstone town. It was a companionable meeting place offering decent whiskey and beer at a reasonable price, straightforward and with no frills.
Genial (but fast-shooting if riled) owner-host Ben Burnham dispensed drinks from behind a trestle-table bar. There was sawdust on the floor. The barmaids were a bit frayed at the edges but not bad looking, especially once you had a couple of drinks in you. The Big Sky was a favorite of the Cowboy set; Ringo and Curly Bill often held court here when they were in town, as they were now.
The saloon was doing a lively business this night, the absence of the sheriff and his deputies and the much-despised (by the Cowboys) Earp brothers contributed to a celebratory mood. Patrons were packed two-deep at the bar and all the tables and chairs were filled. The overflow crowd stood at the rear of the building, whiskey glasses and beer mugs in hand.
At the opposite end of the building, a raised platform served as a kind of stage. Skeets Boyar sat there on a chair, singing and strumming on a Mexican guitar.
Skeets was the unofficial Cowboy troubador, and like most of his fellows, a roper, wrangler, all-around cowhand, and sometime rustler and smuggler. Like them, he thought nothing of wearing his hat indoors and wouldn’t be caught without it. He was young, fresh faced, overdue for a haircut and shave. His clothes were worn and faded, his gun belt leather was weathered, but his holstered six-gun looked shiny new and well tended.
Skeets played Mexican style, without a pick, using all five fingers of his strumming hand on the strings. It was a good guitar, with multicolored bands of inlaid wood and a rich, resonant tone. Skeets got a big sound out of it.
He played the old standards, trail laments like “Streets of Laredo,” and sprightly upbeat tunes like “Git Along Home, Cindy, Cindy.”
He performed purely for the fun of it, his pay only the pleasure of his friends and the free drinks Ben Burnham set him up to by way of recompense.
His listeners were carried away on a melodic carriage of notes and chords.
Flint-eyed hardcases couldn’t help but set booted feet tapping away in time with frisky tunes, while more than a few fancy ladies and saloon girls got misty eyed during the soulful ballads.
Among the appreciative audience were Johnny Ringo and Curly Bill Brocius. They sat up front at one of the best tables in the house, along with some of their inner circle, fast guns and faster women.
Ringo’s current lady friend clung to his arm; Bill sat between two femmes, an arm around each of their shoulders while they snuggled in tight. Arlene was with Ringo; Ginny and Sue cuddled up with Curly Bill.
Arlene was in her late teens, with short, dark reddish-brown hair cut in bangs over a heart-shaped face. Her features were finely made, but her dark blue eyes were hard and there was a bitter twist to her provocatively shaped mouth. Her slim figure was exquisite.
Sue was short, petite, and busty, with chestnut hair curling up at the edges in a lip at her shoulders. Ginny was a big blonde, green eyed, creamy skinned, high breasted, and long legged.
They were grouped at the head of the long table, with some sidemen and their lady friends ranged along the table’s long sides. The tabletop was crowded with glasses and mugs, half-full bottles, and a growing crowd of empties.
Ringo sat slouched back in his chair, long legs extended. His eyes were hooded, and the corners of his lips quirked upward. He seemed to be enjoying himself. He was about as relaxed and happy as he ever got, which wasn’t much.
He was a man with a lot on his mind. No one knew what was haunting him, not even Curly Bill, his best friend. Bill never asked, either. Maybe that’s why he was Ringo’s best friend.
Curly Bill’s nature was different. He was an easygoing sort when he wasn’t crossed. His eyes now glimmered, his face was red and shining, strong white teeth flashing in a big grin.
Arlene clung to Ringo like a starfish gripping a clam whose shell it’s trying to pry open. She chattered away nonstop. When her talk managed to catch his attention, Ringo looked bored or irritated. The longer she went on, the more boredom gave way to irritation.
Arlene was one of those who paid little or no attention to the effect they have on their auditors. Being one of the best-looking women in town, she was used to having men hang on her every word. She had little use for talking to other women, and they gladly reciprocated her indifference.
“I picked you out of all the rest, John. A lot of men would give plenty to be in your shoes, to be with me,” she said, a refrain she had repeated several times before noticing that Ringo made no reply. “Don’t you think I’m pretty? I said, don’t you think I’m pretty, Johnny?”
“Sure, sure,” Ringo said, nodding absently.
“Do you know how lucky you are, to have a beautiful woman like me?” Arlene took a drink. That was the only time she stopped talking, to take a drink. “Buy me another one, Johnny.”
“You’ve had plenty.”
“I want another.”
“Where do you put it all?”
She gave him a dirty loo
k, and swore. “You should talk!”
“I can hold my liquor,” Ringo said.
“So can I. I’m fine, perfectly fine.”
“You think so, huh?”
Arlene changed tack. “That Kate Elder isn’t so much.” Kate Elder was a hard-drinking, fiery-tempered whore with whom Ringo was carrying on a casual, on-off affair. Right now it was off, so he was keeping company with Arlene.
“Do you think she’s pretty? She’s not as pretty as me. Don’t you think that I’m prettier?”
“I’m trying to hear the music,” Ringo said, giving her a hard look.
Arlene was not one to take a hint—not when she was in her cups, which was most of the time “She’s old. She’s got a lot of miles on her, been over a lot of bad road.”
Ringo looked steadily at her, a red flush creeping up from his neck, overspreading his face. A warning sign, to those in the know.
Arlene knew, but chose to ignore it. “Kate belongs with a busted-down drunk like Doc Holliday—”
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
Arlene flinched. She switched from complaining to whining. “You’re mean. Why can’t you be nice to me? Sherm McMasters is.”
“You like him so well, why don’t you go with him? Then I wouldn’t have to listen to you running off at the mouth,” Ringo said.
“You’re mean. How come you’re so mean?”
“Too many women like you.”
Arlene teared up, lower lip quivering, chin trembling. She blinked repeatedly through watery eyes, studying Ringo. He studiously ignored her.
Up front, Skeets Boyar finished his current tune with a flourish. His listeners clapped and whistled their approval, some stamping their feet. They called out requests: “Old Dog Trey,” “Arkansas Traveler,” “Yellow Rose of Texas,” and many others.
There was a lull. Ringo called out for “Shenadoah.”
“No sad songs please, it makes the gals blue and they get behind on their serving,” Ben Burnham called out from behind the bar—joking, but meaning it, too.
Ringo cut him a side glance that would have chilled the blood of even the toughest hombres.
“’Course, if that’s what you want, Johnny, we’d all love to hear it,” Burnham said quickly, white faced.
“Don’t shoot ol’ Ben, John. Who’ll pour the drinks?” Curly Bill cracked.
That broke the tension, getting a laugh all around, even warming to a degree Ringo’s icy hauteur.
“‘Shenandoah’ it is, folks,” Skeets said cheerfully. Apart from everything else, the tune was a favorite of his.
He launched into that song of the wide blue Virginia river and the wayfarer who’s left behind a long-lost love, playing and singing it sweetly and plaintively, lacing it with a lyrical Mexican flavor.
Ringo listened, transfixed. He had a look on his face like some believers get when they’re in church. Even Arlene knew to keep her mouth shut.
Suddenly, a meaty palm heel hammered open a swinging door, as a newcomer burst into the saloon. Sawdust on the floor muffled but could not silence the clatter of big booted feet hurrying across the room to the front.
Ringo’s head whipped around, his long-necked head bobbing like a striking rattlesnake’s, to pin the intruder with a forbidding glare.
Skeets Boyar kept on singing and playing as if there’d been no interruption, staying on pitch and never missing a note.
Ringo was wild of eye, grim of aspect. Curly Bill fastened a hand on Ringo’s upper arm, the arm of his gun hand, which had gone to the ivory-handled grip of his holstered Colt. Only Bill could have gotten away with it, or would have dared.
“Whoa, John, that’s Jeb Harris. Jeb—a friend of ours,” Curly Bill said, soft voiced, and persuasive. “Look at him, he’s all worked up—something’s wrong.”
Jeb Harris, the new entrant, was a disorderly character at the best of times, which this obviously was not. He was ungainly, big gutted, with a soft moon face, and moist dark eyes bulging behind oval lenses of wire-rimmed spectacles.
His eyes widened farther still when he saw how Ringo was looking at him, but he pressed on, making his way to the table. Ringo’s sixth sense for trouble kicked in and he held his hand.
Jeb Harris was a member in good standing of the Cowboy crowd. Urgency now oozed out of him like sweat on a quarter-horse pulling a plow during the dog days of August. Falling under the glare of Ringo’s evil eyes, he froze, fleshy face paling despite the flush of recent exertion.
“Lord, Johnny, you should see your face! You look like you want to kill me!” Jeb Harris said.
“You better have a damned good reason for busting in on the middle of Skeets’s musicale, else I’m gonna peel the bark off of you,” Ringo said. “What is it? What do you want? Spit it out and make it quick.”
“You better come with me, John—you, too, Bill.”
“What’s got you in an uproar, Jeb?” Curly Bill asked.
“Come quick, there’s trouble over to the jailhouse!”
A crowd milled around the front of the Tombstone jail, site of the marshal’s office. More people were arrowing toward the scene by the minute, clustering together, rubbernecking, buzzing. A rising moon caused the gallows to throw long shadows westward across the square.
A wagon and horse team stood outside the jailhouse, showing the effects of a long, hard ride. The horses stood in the traces, heads bowed, sagging at the knees—winded.
They were dusted with alkali, the dust mixing with glossy sweat to form a ghostly paste. The wagon was powdered with the stuff, as was the man who sat slumping upon the driver’s seat, smoking a handmade cigarette.
Someone handed him a canteen. He stubbed the cigarette out on the seat. He took off his hat, poured water into it, and upended the contents on top of his head, wetting it down and washing away much of the dust. He wet his bandana, mopping his face as clean as he could. A youthful face was revealed, grim, haggard with fatigue. Eyes stared off into the distance, reddened from sun and grit.
Ringo and Curly Bill plunged into and through the crowd. Resentment at their vigorous approach was swiftly self-stifled when they were recognized: “Who you pushing?—Oops! Er, sorry, Mr. Ringo, Mr. Brocius, didn’t know it was you!”
Curly Bill got a good look at the driver, and said, “Lee! Lee Lindsey!”
The driver shook off his blank stare, looking around to see who was calling him by name, and spotting Bill and Ringo surging to the fore. Lee Lindsey (for it was indeed him) climbed down heavily from the wagon. Unsteady on his feet, he gripped a sidewall for balance.
Ringo and Bill made their way to him. Lindsey started toward them, stiff-legged, staggering. He stumbled. Ringo and Curly Bill caught him, keeping him from falling.
“Don’t mind me, boys, I’m tuckered out,” Lindsey said.
“What’re you doing here, hoss? Thought you was over to Cactus Patch,” Curly Bill said.
“I was. Me and Don Brown rode a long way fast to find you.”
“Where’s Don?”
Lindsey indicated the jail. “Inside, with the girl.”
“What girl is that?” Ringo asked.
“She’s at the heart of it. It’s murder, boys, murder and worse.”
“Who got killed?”
“Let me go, I can stand now,” Lindsey said. They released him.
Lindsey made his shaky way to the back of the wagon. The tailgate was down.
Inside, on the wagon bed, covered by a dark green horse blanket, lay the unmistakeable outline of a human body. A hand protruded beyond the blanket’s edge. It lay palm up, fingers curling, stiff, chalk white.
“Who is it?” Curly Bill asked.
“Bob Farr,” Lindsey said, his face anguished. He and Farr had been great friends, partners.
Bill swore. Ringo reached into the wagon, turning the blanket down, exposing Farr’s head, shoulders, and chest. His eyes were closed. They had been closed for him by one of his handlers. His pale, bloodless face was carved into a mask of shock
ed surprise.
“He was shot in the back,” Lee Lindsey said, his voice breaking.
Curly Bill continued venting a string of muttered obscenities.
“Who did it?” Ringo asked, intent.
“Dorado, the Mex bandit with the golden gun,” Lindsey said.
“I’ve heard of him. I always thought that golden gun story was a legend.”
“It’s not, and he wasn’t alone.”
“Who else?”
“Quirt Fane.”
Curly Bill stopped swearing. “I know Quirt. He should’ve been killed long ago.”
“He’s got his time now,” Ringo said. “Him and Dorado both.”
The Citizens Committee had been instrumental in having Fred White appointed marshal of Tombstone. They represented the mine owners, leading merchants, and big ranchers. But there was an election coming up and if White wanted to stay marshal, he needed a majority of votes.
The townsfolk’s allegiance was split between the big business faction and the Cowboys. The small shopkeepers, mine workers, and small ranchers tended to side with the Cowboys. They didn’t much care if the big ranchers lost stock to rustlers and they resented the heavy-handed methods of the sheriff and his deputies, the Earps, in laying down the law.
Marshal White had to walk a fine line between the businessmen and the Cowboys.
Deputy Johnny Behan was an outright Cowboy partisan. Assistant Deputy Hubert Osgood took his cue from Behan, a canny politician and rising man in town. Osgood played to the Cowboys, especially with Marshal White out of town on a posse chasing the Wells Fargo robbers.
Now present in the marshal’s office were Osgood, Ringo, Curly Bill, Lee Lindsey, and Don Brown.
Rumors and wild tales about the incident in Cactus Patch had spread like wildfire in Tombstone, causing the occupants of the hotels and saloons of Allen Street to take to the street to hear the latest news.
It was their excited clamoring which created a hubbub in front of the Hotel Erle, interrupting Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves as they pitched their silver claim on Spear Blade Spur to Colonel Davenport.
Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die Page 9
