White Lightning

by Lyle Brandt

  “Sounds good.” Naylor drew both Colts, looking eager.

  “I’d prefer it if you covered me from here,” Slade said. “Keep him distracted while I try to work around behind him.”

  “Okay. Sure,” said Naylor, clearly disappointed.

  Slade took off without debating it, hearing Naylor open up behind him, firing well-spaced shots. The gully led him more or less directly where he hoped to go, but only time would tell if that was good or bad. Whether he rushed toward the solution of a mystery or to his death.

  Grady Sullivan fired one last shot to keep the lawmen under cover, then hauled on his horse’s reins and steered the buckskin gelding southward, back toward Stateline. He was galloping away and out of range when someone fired a pistol shot behind him, wasted. Glancing back, he saw one of the marshals there between the trees, his six-gun dangling, and imagined the frustration he must feel.

  Goddamn, but that was close!

  Sullivan hadn’t been exactly sure how he should deal with the two officers when he left town, riding to intercept them at the Rocking R. He’d hoped to get there and discover that the other hands on duty had prevented any search that would reveal their giant whiskey still. Sullivan understood the basic rule of warrants, but he thought that if the cops got close enough to smell ’shine cooking, that might grant them leave to snoop around. In which case, he supposed he’d have to deal with them, whether the big man finally approved or not.

  The last thing Sullivan expected was to find the marshals holding up a whiskey wagon on the county road. He’d felt a spark of panic then, knowing that they were bound to open up one of the crates and find the bottled liquor, whereupon the driver and his guard would likely squeal to save themselves from doing time. A heartbeat later, Sullivan had found the rifle in his hands and fired almost without conscious volition, taking down the driver—and all hell broke loose.

  What was he thinking? Should his shot have been directed at a marshal, followed by a second round to drop the other one? Whatever hindsight told him would have been the wisest course, he couldn’t turn back time and do it over. Anyhow, the main thing was that he’d escaped, while keeping space enough between himself and the two lawmen to prevent them from identifying him by sight.

  So far, so good.

  But now he had to break the news to Mr. Rafferty, admit that he’d gone off half-cocked and kicked a hornets’ nest. The marshals were alive, they had a wagonload of whiskey from the Rocking R, and if that wasn’t evidence enough to hurt the big man…well, what was?

  It wasn’t over yet, though. Even in his frazzled state, Sullivan thought there might be hope. With Percy Fawcett missing, any message that the lawmen tried to send from Stateline to their boss would have to wait. They might decide to pass on through and take the wagon back to Enid on their own, but that meant camping overnight, somewhere along the way. And Sullivan had learned his lesson about sending others out to do a job he should’ve done himself.

  With or without the ’shine, they’d never make it back to tell Judge Dennison what they had found. Sullivan was prepared to bet his life on that.

  In fact, he’d placed the bet already.

  He would beat them back to town, brief Mr. Rafferty on what had happened, and explain his plan for cleaning up the mess. Whether the marshals stayed in Stateline overnight or pushed on through, he had them covered.

  Now he only had to sweat the big man’s anger, hoping he wouldn’t fly off the handle and do something lethal. Like killing the messenger, say. If Sullivan could make it through their meeting with his skin intact, he thought the other pieces should fall neatly into place all right.

  And if they didn’t…well, he’d think about that when he had no other choice.

  Disgruntled at losing the sniper, Slade hiked back to Naylor and the horses, tersely reporting his failure. Naylor seemed to take the news in stride, asking, “But he was heading back to Stateline, though?”

  “The last I saw of him,” Slade said. “Might be a false lead, though. He could be anywhere by now.”

  “Back at the Rocking R?”

  Slade shrugged. “I wouldn’t know him if he met us on the porch. Besides, I wouldn’t want to take the whiskey wagon back there with their two dead pals.”

  “I’m thinking,” Naylor said, once he was settled on his Appaloosa’s saddle, “we should make sure that it is a whiskey wagon.”

  “Right,” Slade said and mounted up.

  That would be the last straw, he decided, if they killed one man and nearly got shot themselves for something other than the moonshine they were after. Feeling sour all the way back to the wagon with its load of crates and dead men, Slade sat back and watched while Naylor dropped the wagon’s tailgate, used his knife to open up the nearest crate, and lifted out a bottle filled with amber-colored liquid. Prying out the cork, he sniffed, then took a healthy swig.

  “I’d say that’s pretty close to eighty proof,” he said. “You want a shot?”

  “No, thanks,” Slade answered, satisfied with the relief he felt just then.

  They hoisted the two corpses back into the wagon’s bed, no tarpaulin to cover them, and Naylor used a rag he found beneath the driver’s seat to wipe most of the blood away. Unsatisfied with the result, he stripped the lifeless driver’s jacket off and draped it on the seat to hide the stains.

  “Who drives?” he asked.

  “I may as well,” said Slade.

  He led his mare around behind the wagon and secured her reins to the tailgate, then mounted to the driver’s seat and settled on the dead man’s denim jacket. It had been a while since Slade had driven any kind of team, but it came back to him, the docile horses helping out. Naylor rode point, his rifle out and ready, just in case the long-range killer doubled back to try his luck a second time.

  He didn’t, though, and they reached Stateline without further incident. Townspeople on the street made no pretense of looking through them this time, as they brought the wagon and its corpses creaking down the length of Border Boulevard, to stop outside the marshal’s office. Arlo Hickey was already on the sidewalk, thick arms folded, watching them approach.

  “More dead men,” he observed.

  “And a wagon full of moonshine that you’ll need to keep an eye on, overnight,” Slade said.

  “Want me to test it for you, while I’m at it?”

  “Won’t be necessary.”

  “Pity.” Hickey stepped into the street and walked around to get a better look at the two corpses. Blinking at their faces, he said, “Hey, these boys are from the Rockin’ R.”

  “Is that right?” Naylor asked.

  “Sure is. I know ’em both. Mike Embry and Tom Logan. They’re in town a lot. What happened?”

  “We were asking them about their cargo,” Slade replied, “when someone shot the driver from a distance. After that, the guard thought maybe he should take a shot at us.”

  “We didn’t feel like sittin’ still for it,” said Naylor.

  “Jesus. What about the other shooter?”

  “He was faster off the mark than I was,” Slade allowed. “I lost him.”

  Hickey spat into the dust and said, “I’ll go’n fetch the undertaker. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the best friend you two have in town.”

  “We aim to please,” Naylor remarked.

  “About this liquor, now…”

  “Just keep it safe and sound tonight,” Slade said. “We’ll start for Enid with it in the morning.”

  “You’ll wanna talk to Mr. Rafferty about it, I suppose,” said Hickey.

  “We already did that,” Slade replied.

  “He never heard of anybody cookin’ ’shine around these parts,” Naylor chimed in.

  “I just meant, since these were his boys and all…”

  “You want to break it to him, be our guest,” said Naylor.

  “Not my business,” Hickey said and moved off down the street.

  “So, how about it?” Naylor asked. “You want to have another
word with Rafferty before we go?”

  “I thought we’d wait,” Slade said. “See if he has a word for us.”

  From the undertaker’s parlor, Arlo Hickey scuttled on to the Sunflower, dreading what he had to tell the big man. Rafferty was unpredictable, where bad news was concerned, and there’d been nothing else to tell him since the new lawmen hit town.

  The bartender saw Hickey coming, read his somber face, and nodded him on back. Rafferty’s voice boomed out almost before the marshal’s knuckles tapped his office door.

  “Enter!”

  Hickey went in and shut the door behind him, found the big man pacing back and forth behind his desk. Before he had a chance to speak, Rafferty said, “I understand we have a problem, Arlo.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mike and Tom have gone to their reward.”

  “Whatever that might be,” said Hickey.

  “Fruitless speculation. And the shipment?”

  “Sittin’ in a wagon right outside my office. I’m supposed to watch it overnight and see ’em off to Enid with it in the morning.”

  “Ah.”

  “I asked ’em if they meant to speak with you about it,” Hickey said, hating the way his voice cracked as his throat began to tighten.

  “And?”

  “They didn’t seem too interested. Said they had a talk with you already and you couldn’t tell ’em anything.”

  “I’d say we’re in a pickle, then,” said Rafferty.

  You’re in a pickle, Hickey thought, then cleared his throat and said, “I mighta let it slip to ’em Tom ’n’ Mike were from the Rockin’ R.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Marshal.”

  “Thing is, Mr. Rafferty, they didn’t seem to care.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “See, I was thinkin’—”

  “That’s a bad start, Arlo. Say no more.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s evident our uninvited visitors know where the whiskey came from. They were at the Rocking R and trailed it back toward town.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Let’s say I heard it from a little bird.”

  It clicked. “They said somebody shot Joe from afar off,” Hickey said. “I get it now.”

  “Get what?” Rafferty challenged him.

  “Um, well. Nothin’, I guess.”

  “Nothing is right. The only thing you need to know is that a court will see that wagonload of ’shine and grant search warrants. After that, well…surely I don’t need to tell you, Arlo, that if I go down, some others will be going with me.”

  Hickey didn’t like the sound of that. He had no dealings with the ’shine racket himself, except to play blind, deaf, and dumb. He’d absolutely had no part in killing the last U.S. marshal who had passed through Stateline, but Judge Dennison might see it otherwise, once he got in a hanging mood.

  “What should I do?” he asked.

  “For now,” said Rafferty, “just what they’ve told you. Keep the whiskey safe and sound until I send someone to deal with it. If there’s no evidence, they’ve got no case.”

  “We still expectin’ soldiers?” Hickey asked.

  “We are, indeed. Early tomorrow, I would say.”

  “You figure they’ll go up against the lawmen?”

  “I believe they’ll do their duty to the best of their ability.”

  Hickey supposed it would be pushing things to ask what duty that might be. Instead, he told the big man, “If you need some help…um, well…you know.”

  “I will not hesitate to call on you. Good day, Marshal.”

  Officially dismissed, Hickey retreated from the office, out through the saloon, with bright piano music sounding off-key to his ears. Outside, he felt an urge to stride on past his office, pick his horse up from the livery, and ride like hell away from Stateline toward whatever compass point seemed promising. How far would anybody chase him if he ran right now, leaving the big man and his shooters to their fate?

  Not far, perhaps, but he was old for starting over, nothing to his name except a horse, a pistol, and a couple of dollars in his pocket. Hickey knew for damn sure that he couldn’t count on any reference from Mr. Rafferty. In fact, he might not want to use his own name if he started fresh, in case it showed up on a poster somewhere down the line.

  The more he thought about it, though, escaping seemed like too much work. If he stayed put and waited out the storm, he still might be all right.

  Maybe.

  Back at his office, Hickey passed the whiskey wagon—horses gone now, taken to the livery or back out to the Rocking R, he hoped—and went inside. It felt like time to double-check his stock of guns.

  Lord knew he had all night.

  I’ve got all night, thought Percy Fawcett, sitting at the table in his small apartment where he ate most of his frugal meals. In front of him, two fried eggs and some beans lay cooling on a plate, half eaten. Fawcett had laid down his knife and fork, resting his right hand on the Colt that lay beside his plate.

  A noise outside. Footsteps. Just someone passing by, he figured now, since they’d kept going without pause. He had the heavy curtain drawn over his one small window, leaking daylight at the edges, but the quality of light had lately changed. A glance at Fawcett’s watch, open beside the pistol, told him it was five minutes past six o’clock.

  Another hour, more or less, would cloak Stateline in darkness. He could slip out then and try to find the marshals. One or both, it didn’t matter. Either one of them could help him, but the pair of them together offered more protection than a single gun.

  He didn’t fancy creeping through the streets and alleyways of Stateline like a thief or rodent, but he had no choice. He might be shot on sight by Grady Sullivan or any of his men, if Fawcett showed his face on Border Boulevard. Whether they’d turned up Jeb and Dooley yet or not, Sullivan and Rafferty must know he’d given them the slip. They wouldn’t take it lightly, and he guessed that there would be no second try at taking him away without a fuss.

  It all comes down to this, thought Fawcett, feeling as if his whole life had been a waste, in fact. He’d never married, had no one to mourn him when he croaked, and nothing much to leave them if they had existed, but a memory of what a spineless sheep he’d been. Going along to get along had always been his style, and look where it had gotten him.

  For half a second, maybe less, Fawcett considered walking out on Border Boulevard where everyone could see him. Picking out a corner where he could regale them with his knowledge of Flynn Rafferty and all he’d done to make Stateline a place of dirty secrets. Not that anyone with half a brain would be surprised at anything he said. The so-called mayor and marshal were neck-deep in Rafferty’s corruption, and the shopkeepers in town existed by the big man’s sufferance.

  The only thing a public rant would get him was a bullet in the gut. But if he went down fighting, could he salvage something of his reputation, poor as it might be? Could he at least die like a man?

  No. Not tonight.

  He’d take the Colt revolver with him when he went out, naturally, but with no view toward using it unless his adversaries cornered him. In which case, he would have to choose his targets wisely. Would he shoot them, or himself?

  Rafferty had too many gunmen on his payroll for a single man, regardless of his skill, to stop them all. Fawcett’s hope was that the U.S. marshals, once they heard his story, would see fit to spirit him away from Stateline, back to Enid or wherever they could hold him in protective custody. He didn’t think there was a fee for testifying against criminals, but maybe he could beg a stipend from the court to help him relocate—to California, say, or maybe Oregon.

  Maybe run all the way to Canada if he could hide there, safe at last.

  A little longer. Just until the sun went down.

  Fawcett compelled himself to eat the food remaining on his plate. He would need energy tonight and didn’t want his stomach growling at him while he told his story to the lawmen.

 
If they’d listen, after he had lied to them before.

  Would they?

  He grimaced, told himself they had to listen.

  Otherwise, he was as good as dead.

  13

  Slade and Naylor went back to the Borderline Café for supper, even though they’d eaten breakfast there. Pork chops, a baked potato, and some greens for Slade, while Naylor had beef stew with biscuits on the side. Slade felt the other diners shooting surreptitious glances toward their table, eyes quickly averted when he raised his own, and guessed that half the whispered conversations in the restaurant revolved around the bodies they’d delivered to the marshal’s office earlier.

  Why not? Two days, and they had ridden in with six dead men plus thirty crates of moonshine in a wagon from the Rocking R. It would’ve been surprising if the townsfolk weren’t discussing what had happened, wondering what it could mean for Stateline and Flynn Rafferty.

  “You think we’ve got him, then?” asked Naylor, seemingly attuned to Slade’s own silent thoughts.

  “We’ve got his whiskey, anyway,” Slade answered. “We can link it to his ranch, which ought to justify a warrant. Come back with some extra hands and check the barn, then I would say we’ve got him.”

  “If he doesn’t run by then. Or have his men break down the still and move it.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Slade granted. “Nothing we can do about it, though. If Rafferty takes off, we print the posters up and keep him running. Make him someone else’s problem for a while.”

  “And what about Bill Tanner?” Naylor asked.

  “When we come back, if we find any evidence of ’shining, we’ll arrest whoever’s still hanging around the Rocking R. My guess would be that some of them will talk to make it easy on themselves. Pile up the evidence on Rafferty, and when he’s finally arrested, bring him back to hang.”

  “If he’s arrested.” Naylor sounded skeptical.

  “What’s the alternative? Take him to Enid now and risk having the case thrown out? That happens, we may never get another crack at him.”

  “I know, damn it. It frustrates me, is all.”

  “Get used to that,” Slade said, “on this job.”