There were fifty, four-top tables, twenty-five tables for two and forty bar stools. All of them were full. There were people plastered along the walls and the dance floor was teeming. Glancing to his left, Allen peered into the gambling section and saw that the Roulette table and the six poker tables were full as well. He could hear the roar of the crowd even over the band and his heart swelled with pride.
Waiters were running back and forth from the restaurant, hauling dishes of food from the kitchen and returning with trays of drinks. A fight seemed to be brewing by the back bar but Allen saw that Josh and one of his new hires, a knuckle-buster named Bob Showers, were putting a stop to the quarrel.
One voice rose above the others. Hearing the strident and all too familiar tones, Allen gritted his teeth in frustration. It was that damn Calamity Jane* again! Stinking drunk, as usual, she had talked a man into letting her ride on his shoulders. Now, the two drunks careened around the customers and tables while she whipped his backside with a short quirt and he neighed like a crazed pony.
From where he stood, he could hear startled yelps and outraged squawks as Jane’s quirt found its mark on an unsuspecting bottom or a dislodged hat. Allen was just about to don his derby and head downstairs in order to stop their antics when he saw Josh and Bob muscle their way through the crowd and wrestle the two miscreants to the floor.
Two more of his bouncers joined the fray and Allen stood still, watching, as within moments both Jane and her human pony were hauled outside. The immediate crowd quickly returned to their seats and called for more whiskey, rum and gin. The can-can girls lifted their skirts with a boisterous cry and squealed, “Aieee!” The crowd responded in kind, “Aieee!”
Allen thought, Aieee indeed, and made his way to the one, empty table by the back of the room, closest to the bigger and longer of the two bars. Taking a seat, he gestured to Joey, who nodded in acknowledgment.
Within moments, a double whiskey and a wicker bowl of peanuts were sitting in front of the Little Haymaker Saloon’s owner, along with the day’s books. He thumbed through the ledger and stifled a grin. He was learning more about arithmetic from his bookkeeper and he was not certain but it seemed that he and his business were in the black… way in the black!
Sitting back in his chair, O’Donnell felt the warmth of his success cover him like a cozy blanket on a cold, winter day. A few of his patrons saw a slow, rather ugly smirk cross the man’s face as he sat and stared at nothing, but they were too inebriated to take much notice.
Three weeks ago, after an insidious smear campaign, the bank president, Walker Thompson, committed suicide. This wasn’t a fake suicide, like what had happened to the luckless notary, Howard Stapleton, back in Orofino, Idaho. (Josh had snuck back to the man’s tent that night, throttled him and strung him up in a tree with a suicide note pinned on his coat jacket. Allan was rather proud of that note—he had mentioned the man’s wife and daughters by name and wrote how sorry he was for being such a loser and for kicking the bucket in shame.)
This suicide was no fiction. Committed by Thompson’s own hand, the lofty bank president had stuck a 22 in his mouth and pulled the trigger after everybody in the towns of Billings and Coulson heard he was as queer as a two-headed calf and saw the crude, pornographic graffiti that graced every storefront and outside wall within the two towns and beyond.
Thompson’s associate, a pleasant but weak young man, was easily cowed and cognizant of his newness in management. All it took for O’Donnell to, finally, own the home of his dreams was a well-timed (and somewhat forceful) private meeting with the banks new president. Within days, Allen was given two sets of keys to a house he had never, ever dreamed of owning, even during his wildest flights of fancy.
O’Donnell frowned. The first time he had walked through the large, echoing rooms as owner, he felt a keen sense of fear. It was though the house itself held its breath, affronted and disappointed that it must suffer the likes of him in its hallowed halls. Allen quickly fled, but wasted no time in ordering all new furnishings and household staff. He planned to move in, this coming weekend, and hoped that the new furniture and the starchy new staff would drown out the building’s subliminal whispers of scorn.
Picking up his glass and seeing it was empty, O’Donnell glanced toward the bar. The bartenders, Joey and another man named Bradley, were knee deep in customers, so he decided to go fetch a bottle of whiskey for himself. Just as he started to stand, a wild-looking man in animal skins walked up to his table. He crowded in so close, Allen felt a thrill of fear and put his hand on his vest pocket where he had hidden a small, 22. Caliber pistol.
Face flushing, O’Donnell peered up at the man and demanded, “Back away, Sir… at once!”
The man gazed down at him for a moment and then took a step back, holding his two gloved hands away from his stinking, hide coat. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I spend a lot of time on my own, ya know, and sometimes forget a man needs room to breathe.” He held out a fur-covered mitt and said, “The name’s John Johnson. Been up wood-hawking for the ferry steamers for a while and was surprised to see this fine new establishment when I got back to town.”
O’Donnell studied the man’s craggy face and wild, dirty beard. Hard, hazel eyes peered out from a nest of wrinkles and, although his words were friendly enough, the man’s lips curled down at the corners in a U-shaped grimace. Could this really be “Liver-Eating Johnson—the Crow Killer?” he thought.
Deciding that he had better change his attitude quick, lest Johnson eat his liver, O’Donnell stood up and shook the man’s hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Sir! Sorry… you startled me, is all.”
Johnson had been studying Allen’s face with cool eyes and seemed, suddenly, to reach a conclusion. Somehow, O’Donnell knew that this man found him wanting and he felt a chill. Maybe it was a meeting of two similar minds, or a hint that Johnson was not impressed with his credentials as an upright citizen, but Allen knew, without a doubt, that this man was dangerous and would brook no nonsense.
“I saw your boys hauling a certain woman out of here a little while ago…”
O’Donnell smiled. “Oh, you mean Calamity Jane? Yeah, she was getting a mite lit up, and I run a respectable house here. Can’t be having the rabble running customers off, you know.”
Johnson pursed his lips, which caused his unkempt beard to bristle like porcupine quills. “Her name is, actually, Martha Jane Canary. She likes to take a drink, for sure, but there ain’t any call for your men to kick her like a dog.”
“Who was kicking her?”
Johnson turned around and studied the back entrance. “That one there, the big one with the cheap, pocket watch. He hauled off and kicked Martha so hard, it’s a wonder half her ribs ain’t broke.”
“Oh, you mean Josh… he’s a simpleton.” O’Donnell saw the moron leaning against the far wall, looking pleased with himself. Allen also saw the watch he had given Josh hanging on the front of his vest, although he had told the boy to keep it hidden from view.
“So, you are friends with Miss Canary, Mr. Johnson?” O’Donnell studied the man’s face, thinking, everybody in town knows she ain’t nothing but a drunken, whore. Why the concern?
Johnson screwed up his lips and spat in a cuspidor. Turning back, he stared Allen in the eye. “Not really. I just don’t tolerate savages, Mr. O’Donnell, as you might know if you were to study up on me a little.”
Gazing over at Josh, who was laughing at something Bob Showers was saying, Johnson added, “Tell your guard dog, I had better not catch him kicking women around on the street, again.” He pulled a bowie knife from a hidden coat pocket and used the tip of it to clean one of his fingernails. “Got me?”
O’Donnell felt a deep flush of fury heat his cheeks and it took every ounce of control he possessed to keep from pulling his gun out and putting a cap in the man’s hairy head. He struggled against his own anger for a moment, while Johnson observed his reaction with amused eyes and said, “Of course, you’re right
, Mr. Johnson. I’ll have a word or two with my bouncers about the use of excessive force.”
“That’s good, Mr. O’Donnell. “See you around, I’m sure.” Johnson said and wandered away into the crowd, still using his knife to clean his nails. O’Donnell saw that people moved as far away from Johnson as possible as he moved toward the gambling tables. He also realized that he wasn’t the only one who felt danger emanating off the man, like stink from a skunk.
“Jesus, what a town!” he muttered to himself as he walked over to the bar, grabbed a bottle of whisky and a fresh glass. Sitting back down in his chair, O’Donnell wondered what would happen in two weeks’ time when Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and rodeo came to town.
With the likes of Annie Oakley, Lillian Smith, Seth Clover and the attending Sioux and Pawnee Indians that made up William Cody’s show, O’Donnell thought he had better cozy up to the town’s sheriff. Grinning at the irony of enlisting legitimate lawmen, Allen knew he would need all the help he could get if he wanted to keep his grand new saloon in one piece.
He did not notice the pair of cold hazel eyes that studied him from across the room. Liver Eating Johnson was no one’s fool. Although some folks had taken to calling him an outlaw, lately, he did not think so of himself. He had lived a solitary life and seen more atrocities than he was able to count.
His heart and soul could not take unwonted savagery, never could, and he had made his point abundantly clear over the last few years. That was why the Crow Indians feared and despised him. Seeing the brutality of one of O’Donnell’s strong-arm men earlier, made all of his anger toward injustice rise to the surface.
It didn’t matter that Martha Jane brought most of her problems down on herself; Johnson wouldn’t stand by and watch her get a beat-down for no other reason than being drunk. Half the men and women in this establishment were inebriated.
No, he thought, as he shuffled the poker cards in front of him. That was sheer meanness and I mean to keep my eye on things, especially O’Donnell (who he knew—at an instinctual level—was a crook, despite his fancy clothes) and his boy Josh, with the stupid, tarnished pocket watch.
Calling the bet, Johnson settled back in his chair with a smile.
INTERLUDE
Roy Smithers, Chance and a Woman Scorned
Dixie Monroe gave her horse a savage kick and galloped as fast as she could toward the Atkinson ranch—some ten miles away from Patty’s place. She didn’t have much opportunity to leave on her own but she had used the excuse that the chickens were running low on feed and lied about her need to go into town.
After promising to fetch back some hair ribbons, grain and the new Sears and Roebuck catalogue, she had buckled a packhorse into its traces and headed out. Once she was out of sight, she planned to drop the wagon and go the rest of the way bareback. She did not intend to return, however. Once she got to the Atkinson’s (and hopefully gotten a little cash in exchange for information) she planned on heading to Seattle.
She knew that once the other women learned of her involvement with her (now dead) lover, Alexander Guthrie, she would be cast out, anyway… especially once they heard what she had said about Mr. Pretty Boy, Matthew Wilcox! Kicking the fat, old horse again, she hollered, “Heeyah!” and used the tail end of her reins on the horse’s backside.
The draft horse was blowing bloody foam from its nostrils when Dixie entered the high gates of Atkinson’s ranch, an hour and a half later. Some of the buckaroos (who liked horses much more than human beings) walked up and took the poor old horse by the reins, clucking in concern as it shook and its knees knocked in strain.
“What in the hell, Dix?” One of the men turned to her with a scowl. “You bein’ chased by Injuns… cuz that’s the only excuse I can think of for runnin’ a hoss to death!”
Dixie couldn’t have cared less about her mount—he was a means to an end. She put her pretty, freckled nose in the air and said, “I was in a hurry, that’s all. That horse will be all right. Now, I need to speak with Mrs. Atkinson and Mile’s brother… come on! Take me to ‘em!”
In fact, the draft horse known as Percy was not all right. Even as Dixie demanded to be shown to Widow Atkinson’s parlor, the gelding fell to its knees with a shudder. Then it let out a miserable groan and toppled to the ground with a crash.
“Goddamit! You killed that old hoss! I oughtta make you bury it!” the same, old cowboy snarled.
Dixie sniffed. “Okay—I’m sorry! Just, please take me in to talk to Henrietta. I’ve got important news about the man who shot her husband, and his boys down!” Tears filled her pretty, green eyes and she batted her lashes as she added, “I’m in a hurry, though, boys! Please?”
“Show her up to the house, Carl,” the older man growled and turned to regard the dead horse at his feet. With a sigh, he walked over to a tall post and grabbed a heavy rope. Now, he had to drag the horse to the boneyard, which was a place he disliked at the best of times.
Dixie composed herself (and her story) as she walked to the front door. Her escort knocked and they stood waiting until a Mexican woman in a servant’s outfit opened it. A few minutes later, Dixie was shown to the parlor, where she told a whopper of a story to ears that were only, too, happy to hear that a scoundrel of the first order was responsible for Mile’s fate.
Two hours later; and with twenty silver dollars in her purse, Dixie Monroe was headed by coach, to the town of Walla Walla and a train that would take her on in to Seattle.
~
“I HATE him!” Chance declared, tossing his hat across the office to land in amongst the cups and saucers on a bureau by the cook stove. Tears filled the boy’s beautiful, moss green eyes and he wiped them away with an angry swipe of his right arm.
Sheriff Roy Smithers winced, both at the boy’s angry words and at the sound of broken crockery. Standing up, he walked over to the bureau and started picking up shards of glazed pottery from the top of the bureau and the floor. He felt a presence by his side, and heard Chance say, “Sorry, Uncle Roy. I didn’t mean to break stuff.”
They cleaned up for a minute or two, and then Roy said, “Sit down, son. I want to talk to you about your Pa.”
Chance, who seemed to have grown a foot in the three months since Matthew left sat down, glaring defiantly. Roy settled into his chair and stared back at him with kindly eyes. “I know you’re mad at him for leaving, Chance. But, sometimes a man needs to find his way back from a bad place. Your Pa was in that bad place after your ma was murdered… a place where he couldn’t see any other way to ease his mind than to find the man who did this and bring him to justice.”
Chance sat up in his chair. “Well, he should have taken me with him. I loved her too, you know!” The boy’s cheeks were beet-red with fury and, for a moment, Roy saw Matthew staring out from those emerald orbs.
“Besides, he just upped and left me and my sister behind. He didn’t even say good… goodbye!” Chance started to weep again, although he tried to hide it by glaring toward the far corner of the room.
“I know, son. I think he figured you would pester him about coming along for the ride. Even you gotta admit, he can travel faster without you tagging along, slowing him down…”
Chance didn’t disagree, although Roy’s logic couldn’t ease the hurt for a thirteen-year-old boy who had lost both parents, almost overnight.
There was a light knock on the door. “Come in!” Roy shouted.
Dicky stuck his head around the doorjamb and held a leather dispatch bag in the air. “Mail just came in, Sheriff,” he said.
“Thanks, Dicky. Bring it on in here.”
The deputy placed a hand on Chance’s shoulders as he passed, and Roy saw Chance reach up to touch his friend’s hand. “You stop in and see me and Abner before you head back, you hear?”
Chance nodded, but continued to glare at the far wall. Dicky handed the sheriff the mail packet and blinked in sympathy at the expression on Roy’s face. They all missed Matthew—deeply—but the boy’s grief was unbe
arable.
They understood the youngster’s anger but as grown men, they also understood Matthew’s motives. There was a whine at the door and Matthew’s dog, Trickster, poked his head in. Sometime within the last few weeks, Matthew had dropped the dog off in Colville, with instructions for its delivery back to Granville.
The half dog-half wolf had escaped though, and followed its nose to Abby’s household. It was a lucky thing he hadn’t been shot. Although Trickster was only half wolf, he looked more like the predator species than a dog. Both city-folk and ranchers, alike, wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot him down, had he been spotted. Once Abby and Chance fetched him back to Granville, Matthew’s pet spent most of his time between Roy’s office and the jailhouse.
“Remember, Chance… stop by the jailhouse before you head back to Spokane. I got something for you.” Dicky had made a fine, new slingshot for Chance. He didn’t know whether the boy still held an interest, but the deputy thought it might serve well to remind Chance that his pa had laid low many a crooked agent with the same type of weapon.
“I will… I promise.” Chance murmured.
Dicky left and Chance got up to pour himself a cup of coffee while Roy perused the mail. Sitting back down in his chair, he started to apologize again for his earlier behavior when he saw the sheriff sit up in his chair with a grunt of surprise.
Roy held a large piece of paper in his hand and even from across the room, Chance could tell that Roy was staring at a WANTED POSTER.
“What is it, Roy?” Chance ventured.
“Well, it’s a goddam lie, is what!” Roy snarled.
Standing up, Chance crossed the room and stood behind the Granville sheriff. Looking down at the Wanted Poster in Roy’s hand, the boy’s mouth dropped open in shock… and fear.
WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
For Rape and Murder
Washington State Marshal,
Matthew Robert Wilcox
Considered Highly Dangerous
Deadman's Revenge (The Deadman Series Book 3) Page 11
