White Lightning

by Lyle Brandt

  “Half past eleven. After he gets up and drinks his breakfast.”

  “So he’s all done for today.”

  “Slick as a whistle.”

  Damn it. “Does he talk about his business when you’re workin’ on him?” Sullivan inquired.

  “A bit, sometimes.” Suspicious-sounding now. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’d like to find out what he talked about with them law dogs. Think you could squeeze that out of him tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. I can’t promise nothin’.” His anxiety gave way to greed, O’Malley asking, “What’s it worth?”

  “Depends on what you get. Five dollars, maybe ten.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Across the street, the objects of his interest were moving, easing off the sidewalk while a buggy passed, then heading toward the Sunflower Saloon.

  “Goin’ to see your boss, now,” said O’Malley.

  “Seems so.”

  And he couldn’t even run around the back way with a warning now, for fear of drawing their attention. If he walked and kept it casual, they’d beat him to the big man’s office easily.

  “Guess you can ask him what they want, yourself,” O’Malley kidded him.

  Instead of answering, he left the barber standing there and cut across the street, reversing more or less the lawmen’s path. Sullivan wasn’t headed for the Swagger Inn, however. He had plans to finalize before he hustled Percy Fawcett out of Stateline, helpers to recruit and have on standby when the time came. There was nothing he could do to keep the deputies away from Rafferty, no way to help the big man deal with them. The best thing he could do was follow orders and make certain nothing else went wrong.

  The next mistake, he knew, could be his last.

  Halfway across the street, between the Swagger Inn and Sunflower Saloon, one ripple of piano music gave way to another. Slade saw a customer emerging from the Sunflower, unsteady on his feet, weaving a little as he turned away from them and tottered east on Border Boulevard.

  “No lack of drinkers hereabouts,” said Naylor, as he watched the tipsy man’s retreat.

  “A good market for whiskey,” Slade suggested. “Taxed or otherwise.”

  “You think Swagger was lying?”

  “Couldn’t say, unless we check his inventory and supplier.”

  “Wichita, he said.”

  “We can go back and get a name, if need be,” Slade replied. “Cable up there and save ourselves a hundred miles on horseback.”

  “Suits me,” Naylor said.

  The Sunflower was somewhat larger than the Swagger Inn and had a real piano player in the flesh. The rest of it was standard: bar along the back wall of a spacious room with card tables, roulette, and chuck-a-luck. A curved staircase led to the cribs upstairs, but none of the Sunflower’s working girls were presently in evidence. Slade counted five men at the bar and three more playing poker at a table to his right.

  Whereas the Swagger Inn’s bartender was a giant of a man, the Sunflower’s was whisper thin and average in height, with jet-black curly hair, clean shaven, scarred along his left jawline as if from dueling with a knife or razor. He was joking with a customer but lost his sense of humor at the sight of badges.

  “Help you?” he inquired, not sounding much as if he gave a damn.

  “We’re looking for the boss,” said Naylor.

  “He expectin’ you?”

  “I’ll bet he is,” Slade said.

  The barkeep cracked his knuckles. Said, “I’ll have ta check.”

  “Do that,” said Naylor. Then, when he was left alone with Slade, “You think he’s heard about us through the grapevine?”

  “Stands to reason,” Slade replied. “We made a splash with those four stiffs. A town this size, word gets around.”

  The barkeep was returning, wearing a disgruntled look. “He’ll see you. Far end of the bar, the door marked PRIVATE, by the stairs.”

  They followed his directions, found the door already open to an office with a large desk facing them as they approached. Behind it stood the Sunflower’s proprietor, a stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair, dressed all in navy blue. He didn’t come around the desk to meet them, but he leaned across to shake their hands.

  “Flynn Rafferty,” he said, repeating Slade’s and Naylor’s names in turn as they were given, like a man committing them to memory. “Drag up a couple chairs and rest yourselves.”

  They found two mismatched chairs and sat, while Rafferty inquired, “How can I help the law today?”

  Slade ran it down for Rafferty the way they had for Swagger, starting with the ’shine, then moving on to Tanner’s homicide. Rafferty nodded through the recitation, frowning just enough to indicate concern.

  “I spoke with your associate when he was here in town, of course,” said Rafferty. “Nice man, as far as I could tell.”

  “He was that,” Slade allowed.

  “Determined to locate these vermin who’ve been selling whiskey on the reservations,” Rafferty continued.

  “It’s a problem,” Naylor said.

  “And tragic, how he met his end. You’re thinking redskins are responsible? Maybe he caught some with a load of ’shine?” asked Rafferty.

  “That isn’t clear,” Slade said. “The reason that we’re here, it crossed our minds that someone peddling whiskey to the tribes might try his luck with the saloons nearby.”

  Rafferty raised one eyebrow, kept on nodding. “Wish that I could help you there,” he said. “You might check Swagger’s place, across the boulevard.”

  “We did,” Naylor replied. “He said he gets his booze from Wichita.”

  “Does he? Ours comes in from Joplin.”

  “In Missouri?” Naylor asked.

  Another nod from Rafferty. “It’s sixty miles due east, closer than Wichita by half. They have a fine distillery nearby, at Jolly Mill.”

  “You haven’t been approached by anyone with untaxed alcohol to sell?” asked Slade.

  “No, sir. I would’ve sent them packing if I had.”

  “And turned them in?” asked Naylor.

  That received a shrug. “It’s not my job,” said Rafferty. “I try to live and let live when I can.”

  “And when you can’t?” Slade asked.

  “It hasn’t come to that, thank goodness.” Smiling. “Sorry that I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  “Well, I guess it was a long shot, but we had to ask,” Slade said.

  “Of course, of course. And while you’re here in Stateline, I hope you’ll accept our hospitality as time allows.”

  “That’s mighty generous,” said Naylor.

  “We aim to please.”

  Outside, Naylor asked Slade, “Did that sound like a bribe to you?”

  “Nothing that we could charge him with,” Slade said. “But that makes four people I’m pretty sure have lied to us so far.”

  9

  On Friday evening Slade and Naylor went to supper at the Lone Star Barbecue. Slade ordered carne asada with an enchilada and frijoles charros on the side, while Naylor ate pork ribs and grilled corn on the cob, washed down with beer. Slade stuck to coffee, strong and black, leaving some room for pie.

  “The way I see it,” Naylor said, between large bites of pork dripping with sauce, “we need to have a look around Stateline without an audience or anybody offerin’ to scout for us. If there’s not something fishy goin’ on, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “You won’t have room, the way you’re going,” Slade replied. “But I agree with you. I don’t trust anyone we’ve talked to yet.”

  “Including Marshal Call-Me-Arlo Hickey?”

  “Him, for starters. I still think he knew those four we got the drop on, or at least he’d seen them passing through.”

  “We’re on our own, then.”

  “Way it feels to me,” Slade granted.

  “Suits me,” said Naylor. “Saves a lot of wonderin’.”

  Dessert was apple pie for Slade, cinnamon cake
for Naylor, who’d retired his beer and switched to coffee for the final course. Outside, after they settled up the tab, they lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, in the dusk, deciding where to start their search.

  “East side of town,” Slade finally suggested. “Check our horses at the livery, if anybody’s watching, then work back from there.”

  “Sly-like,” said Naylor. “Think they’ve put a pair of eyes on us?”

  “I haven’t spotted any, but I wouldn’t put it past them,” Slade replied.

  “Come out the back way from the livery, I guess, then work out way along behind the shops and all?”

  “What I was thinking,” Slade agreed. “Get to the other end, then cross without attracting anyone’s attention, double back, and do it over on the Kansas side.”

  “Okay.”

  There horses seemed content. Slade spent a moment with the hostler, asking if he’d heard of any moonshine operations in the neighborhood, and got a hasty-feeling “No, sir” in return. The fellow watched them exit through the rear, a weakness in their plan if he ran off to warn someone, but it was too late to retract the question.

  “So, another liar, do you think?” asked Naylor, when they’d cleared the stable.

  “Maybe. Or by now he’s heard how Tanner got it, and he doesn’t want to take a chance.”

  “Another way of saying that he might know something,” Naylor said.

  “I guess that’s right.”

  “Makes me want to grab somebody by the neck and shake ’em till they rattle.”

  “Still an option,” Slade admitted, “if we come up short the other way.”

  They walked along behind the buildings on the south—or Oklahoma—side of Border Boulevard, full dark overtaking them within a block or so. Slade wasn’t sure exactly what to look for, but he’d smelled a whiskey still on several occasions, thinking that the ’shiners couldn’t hide that kind of operation from his nose, even if they concealed it from his eyes.

  “I’ve never seen a whole town that could keep a secret,” Naylor said, as they were pacing off the fourth block, moving east to west.

  “I’ve seen a couple try,” Slade answered, “but they weren’t much good at it. Somebody always cracks.”

  “Nice if we had a way to speed it up.”

  “Finding the cooker ought to do it,” Slade suggested. “Or the place they stash the booze to age it.”

  “May not age it much,” said Naylor. “If it’s just your basic popskull, they could sell it raw and let the buyers proof it down.”

  “Reselling it, you mean.”

  Luke nodded. “Sure. Stretch the supply and multiply the profit three, four times. Why not.”

  “Like through saloons,” Slade said.

  “Best place that I can think of.”

  “Till somebody checks for tax stamps.”

  “Make your own. You’d only have to have one honest sample and a printer who can counterfeit them.”

  “With a label from a recognized distillery,” said Slade.

  “Whose gonna question it, once you start sellin’ in another state?”

  “So we don’t need to find the still first thing,” Slade offered. “Any good-sized cache could do.”

  “Mount a watch on it. Find out who comes and goes. I like it,” Naylor said.

  “Now all we have to do is find it,” Slade reminded him.

  A smile flashed in the night as Naylor said, “What are we waitin’ for?”

  The knock made Percy Fawcett jump, although he’d been expecting it. Was dreading it, in fact, still not convinced that Grady Sullivan had his best interest in mind. He might be regarded as a danger now, something to be disposed of, and he wasn’t taking any chances. Tucked inside his belt, around in back where it was covered by his jacket, Fawcett wore a Colt M1889 revolver chambered for the .38-caliber Short Colt cartridge. In the right-hand pocket of his trousers, he was also carrying a clasp knife with a four-inch blade.

  Now, if he only had the nerve to use the weapons, Fawcett thought he should be safe.

  Or would he?

  Sullivan was known to be a gunman, and the rowdies whom he hung out with were all cut from the same rough cloth. Fair bodyguards, he would imagine, but if they had devilry in mind, he could not hope to best them.

  Worried as he was, Fawcett had nearly slipped away from town that afternoon, after his shift was over, but his nerve had failed. He pictured Sullivan and company pursuing him, catching him somewhere on the plains, taking his flight as proof that he’d betrayed them. They would surely kill him then, and no mistake. Playing along with them, at least he had a fighting chance to stay alive.

  Now he was answering the door, saw Sullivan and two more men he didn’t recognize standing in darkness on his doorstep. Fawcett backed away and beckoned them inside. The little living room of his apartment suddenly felt claustrophobic, redolent of unwashed bodies. He was tempted for a suicidal moment to inquire when they had bathed last, but he bit his tongue instead.

  “You packed?” asked Sullivan.

  “I am,” Fawcett responded, nodding toward a trunk and portmanteau that sat together in the middle of the floor.

  “That’s ever’thing?”

  “It is.”

  “Go on and shift that to the buggy,” Sullivan told his companions. Each man took a handle of the trunk and hauled it out into the night, where Fawcett saw a horse-drawn carriage standing, two more animals secured behind it by their reins. Sullivan took the portmanteau and ordered Fawcett, “Kill the lamps and lock ’er up. You’ve got a ways to travel.”

  Fawcett did as he was told, locking the door behind him as he left, and wondered if he’d ever see the place again. He’d grown accustomed to the rooms, but now supposed that even if he managed to survive his trek with Sullivan, it would be hazardous to show his face around Stateline again. After he’d run out on the marshals, they’d be looking for him high and low, assuming he had information they could use.

  And they’d be right, of course.

  Which made him dangerous—but dangerous enough to kill?

  Outside, before he climbed into the carriage, Sullivan told Fawcett, “This is Jeb and Dooley. They’ll be takin’ you to someplace you’ll be safe awhile.”

  “You won’t be coming with us?” Fawcett asked, uncertain whether he should he relieved or worried.

  “Not just now,” Sullivan said. “I got some things to do for Mr. Rafferty before I come and tuck you in.”

  “I see.” But did he? Was the handoff to his cronies simply Grady’s way to rid himself of Fawcett while establishing an alibi in town? Did it portend his murder, somewhere in the dark outside of Stateline? And if so, would he be better off with two assassins than with three?

  Sullivan helped him up into the buggy, such a gentleman. Once he was seated, Fawcett took advantage of the dark and the distraction of his escorts, reaching underneath his coat to slip the short revolver from his waistband, bringing it around in front where it was easier to reach.

  A little life insurance, just in case.

  He might not match the speed or skill of Sullivan’s companions, but at least he could defend himself and let them know that they’d been in a fight. Whatever happened next, Fawcett would not be led to slaughter like a sheep.

  “Hold on. You smell that?” Naylor asked.

  “I do,” Slade said.

  They’d reached the southeast corner of a good-sized building on the Oklahoma side of Border Boulevard, a few doors short of Stateline’s western boundary, where the town ran out and open plains began.

  “It smell like a saloon to you?” Naylor inquired.

  It did, but they were well beyond the Swagger Inn and slightly farther from the Sunflower. There was no breeze to speak of, and the little that Slade felt was blowing from the west, back toward the town’s saloons.

  “Worth looking into,” Slade suggested.

  There was nothing painted on the backside of the building to suggest its function or identify its owne
r. Slade tried the back door and found it locked or bolted from the inside.

  “Try around the front?”

  “But carefully,” Slade answered. “It’s not late enough for all the neighbors to be sleeping.”

  Naylor led the way along a narrow alley set between the aromatic building and a feed store to its right. Their footsteps crunched on dirt and gravel all the way, Slade wincing at the way the alley’s confines seemed to magnify the sound. A moment later they were at the alley’s mouth, emerging onto Border Boulevard, no street lamps to reveal them, although someone covering the block could see them easily enough.

  Turning left, they passed before the building, named up front as Stateline Storage. Sniffing as he passed the padlocked entrance, Slade smelled nothing to provoke suspicion.

  “Only round in back,” Naylor observed.

  “We’d better try to have a look inside,” Slade said.

  “Suits me.”

  The problem was legality, of course. Slade hadn’t been to law school, but Judge Dennison had quizzed him on the Bill of Rights when he became a marshal and reminded him specifically that searching private property without a proper warrant could result in vital evidence being excluded from a trial. If he and Naylor found a hoard of untaxed whiskey in the warehouse, they could neither confiscate it nor refer to it in any charges later filed against the stockpile’s owner—whoever that turned out to be. Still, they were at a dead end as it was, and Slade needed a break to move the case along. Right now, a quiet look-see struck him as the only way to go.

  They doubled back along the alley, checked both ways for passersby before they sidled toward the rear approach to Stateline Storage. Naylor tried the door again, as if he thought it might have magically unlocked itself, then raised the right cuff of his pants and drew a long knife from his boot.

  “Lucky I brought the key,” he said, grinning.

  “We’re on the wrong side of the law with this, you know,” Slade cautioned him.

  “The Fourth Amendment, was it?”

  “Right.”

  “You gonna tell on me?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, then.” Naylor slipped his blade between the door and jamb, worked it around till something snapped inside, and then withdrew it. When he tried the door again, it opened at his touch. “Easy,” he said and tucked his knife away.