by Ralph Cotton
“I understand,” Sam said, still checking the steadiness of Stone’s hands, especially his right—his gun hand. He watched Stone sprinkle tobacco back and forth along the white paper cradle.
“But I’m done with it,” Stone said, glancing up at him. He bit one of the strings atop the pouch, drew the pouch shut and dropped it back into his pocket. “It made a fool of me long enough. It ain’t so much the whiskey that’s got me shaky,” he added. “Seems like I’m living on strong coffee and rock candy.” He paused and ran his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper. “But this will all pass. . . .”
“I’m glad it’s going good for you, Sheriff,” Sam said. “What about that other thing you were having trouble with?”
“What? Oh, you mean thinking I was turning into a wolf?” Stone said.
“Yeah, that,” Sam said.
Stone shrugged; he ran the cigarette in and out of his mouth and gave either end a slight twist.
“I’m done with that too,” he said. “I don’t know what come over me, but it’s over now. The more sober I get, the more loco all that sounds.”
Sam just looked at him, a little skeptical.
“Trust me—it’s over, Ranger,” Stone said with a tired grin. He held out a hand. “Want to shake my paw on it?”
Sam still stared, stoically.
“Easy, Ranger, I’m just joshing. Don’t laugh yourself into madness,” said Stone. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and searched himself for a match.
Sam gave a trace of a smile.
“I thought it might be a joke,” he said. He watched Stone light the cigarette, take a draw and blow it out. “What about the situation with the judge?”
“It’s all clear,” said Stone. “I explained everything that’s been going on—told him about the twenty thousand dollars Centrila passed along for me to give to him. He believes I wasn’t going to keep it. Had me send the bribe money to him by rail express, soon as I got back here from Yuma. He’s investigating the matter, seeing if he can charge Centrila with attempted bribery and make it stick.”
“I wouldn’t let my hopes get too high, Sheriff,” Sam cautioned him. “It’s getting to where rich men don’t go to jail, they go to lawyers.”
“I know that,” Stone said. “I just did my part. The rest is up to the judge. At least Centrila didn’t get his son, Harper, out of prison. That shows that the law still works, some anyway.”
“That’s the only way we can look at it,” Sam offered.
“Speaking of Centrila,” Stone said, nodding toward the new sign above the saloon. “He now owns two of Silver’s three drinking and gambling establishments.”
“Gave up the cattle business for gambling establishments?” Sam speculated, taking in the new sign, seeing the men gathered out in front of the Silver Palace.
“He’s not fooling me,” Stone said. “He ain’t giving up cattle, not for long anyway. He’s got an ax to grind with me. I figure he’s going to wait his chance and have me killed. He’s got the gunmen to do it, and there’s no better place to get a lawman shot down than in a crowded saloon.” He inspected the front of the Silver Palace as if seeing the place where his fate would someday unfold.
“Say the word,” said Sam. “We’ll both go jerk a knot in his tail. Maybe he’ll back off.”
“Ha,” said Stone. “He’s nowhere around. We both know that a snake like Edsel Centrila wouldn’t be caught within a hundred miles of a man he had killed.” He nodded at three well-dressed horsemen moving up to the Palace’s hitch rail at a walk. “You ever heard of Silas Rudabaugh?”
Sam gazed at the three riders, seeing them stare back at him and Stone.
“Rudabaugh the stock detective,” Sam said, calling upon his memory for the gunman. “Heard of him, never had cause to meet him.” He watched as a short, frail-looking Mexican woman walked purposefully toward the three gunmen, cursing them as they stepped down from their horses.
“You’re getting ready to,” Stone said, “unless you prefer to watch from here.”
“Watch what?” the Ranger asked.
“This!” said Stone. As he spoke, he and Sam both saw the Mexican woman swing a shotgun up from under her black shawl and aim it at the three gunmen. “No, Mama Belleza!” Stone shouted loudly as he broke forward in a run, his hand on his holstered Colt. “Lower that scattergun right now!”
Sam ran alongside him. He sensed that Stone’s concern was more for the woman than the three men.
The woman swung toward Stone and the Ranger as the three gunmen stood facing her from fifty feet. Seeing the sheriff, the woman lowered the shotgun just as she pulled both the triggers and sent an upsurge of dirt exploding into the air ten feet in front of her. The impact of both barrels firing sent her staggering backward. But she managed to catch herself and stay on her feet. She threw her bony hands up in surrender. The shotgun fell to the ground. The three gunmen laughed aloud. One of them lowered a shiny Remington back down into its holster.
“I do not shoot at you, Sheriff!” she shouted in a tearful voice. “I shoot at this pig.” She jerked her head toward the middle gunman, who stood watching with a stylish charcoal gray coachman’s hat cocked jauntily to one side of his head. He clenched a thin cigar in his teeth. A long gold watch chain looped down from his vest pocket.
“Easy does it,” he whispered to the other two gunmen. “She’s not worth a bullet.” His black-gloved hand rested on the butt of a big Colt standing in a cross-draw holster, the lapel of his black riding duster pulled open behind it.
Stone slid to a halt and took both the old Mexican woman’s hands in his and held her.
“You can’t be doing this, Mama Belleza,” he said, keeping his voice lowered. “You’re lucky they didn’t kill you.”
The elderly woman paid no attention to his warning.
“Who is this one?” she asked, eying the Ranger.
“He’s Ranger Sam Burrack, Mama,” Stone said quickly. “He’s here on business.” He turned toward Sam with her. The three gunmen watched, wearing smug grins. “Ranger, this is Mama Belleza. She owns the Hermosa Cantina.”
“Pleased, ma’am,” Sam said. He kept watch on the three gunmen as he touched the brim of his sombrero toward the frail elderly woman.
“Let’s get you out of the street, Mama,” Sheriff Stone said. Slipping an arm around her thin waist, he started to usher her toward her run-down cantina a block away. The Ranger walked over and picked up the smoking shotgun lying in the dirt. He broke the gun open and hung it over his forearm.
“Whoa there, Sheriff, what’s your hurry?” the man in the coachman’s hat called out. “Aren’t you going to ask if I want this woman arrested? She did come here to kill me.”
“I’m taking her home, Rudabaugh. Come to my office if you want to bring charges,” Stone said. He turned and walked away with the frail woman against his side. Sam stood in the street facing the three men, covering the sheriff’s back.
“What’s this? Ranger Burrack must think we’re all three back-shooters,” said one of the gunmen. This one wore a black bowler and long matching duster.
The Ranger looked closer at the man speaking.
“Dirty Donald Ferry . . . ,” he said, recognizing the man.
The man spread his arms and gave a stiff smile.
“Maybe then, but do I look dirty now, Ranger?” he said.
“The name always lent itself more to your character than your personal hygiene, Donald,” Sam replied. As he spoke he raised the empty shotgun from over his forearm, snapped it shut and started walking forward. “Who are your pals?” He looked the other two men up and down.
“See what the Ranger’s doing right now?” said Ferry instead of answering Sam. “He’s getting in close with that shotgun so’s he can crack somebody in the jaw with the butt of it.” He grinned. “But it ain’t going to happen this time like it
did before.”
Sam stopped two steps farther back than he’d intended to and looked down at the shotgun in his hand as if he hadn’t realized he was carrying it.
“You feel better if I stop back here, Donald?” he said. “I don’t want to make you turn pale and nervous.”
“You’re not making me one damn bit nervous, Ranger,” Ferry said. His face reddened; he took two short threatening steps forward and stood glaring at the Ranger. “Without your element of surprise, you ain’t so damn—”
He stopped short as the shotgun butt stabbed him hard in the middle of his chest just below where his ribs met. Breath and spittle flew from his mouth. He jackknifed and stood bowed deep at the waist, his hands clutching his solar plexus. The Ranger sidestepped, reached out and grabbed Ferry’s Remington from its holster in one slick professional move and pitched it away. The other two gunmen had already grasped their revolvers, but upon seeing the Ranger toss the Remington into the dirt, they kept themselves in check and stood staring. The Ranger grabbed the back of Ferry’s shirt collar and raised the gasping gunman up and down at the waist as if operating a pump handle.
“That’s it, Ferry. Breathe deep,” he said calmly.
“Jesus, he walked right into that,” said Rudabaugh, giving Ferry a look of contempt.
“I saw it coming,” said the other man, unimpressed.
Sam straightened Ferry onto his feet and steadied him a little.
“There, you’re doing fine,” he said encouragingly. He patted Ferry’s bowed back. Ferry gasped and wheezed.
“I’ll ki-kill you,” he managed to say in a strained, weakened voice.
“Let it go, Ferry, he got you,” Rudabaugh cut in sharply. He said to the Ranger, “I’m Silas Rudabaugh, Ranger.” He raised his hand from the butt of his Colt and gestured it toward the third man, a stout man with a thin mustache who wore a wide-brimmed hat with a flat crown. “This is Clayton Boyle. We’ve both heard of you.” With that he let his hand fall to his side, away from his holstered Colt. “You wield a wicked shotgun.” He nodded at the bowed gunman with a string of spittle hanging down from his lips. “I’ll remind Donald that you could have done much worse, had you a mind to.”
“I know Dirty Donald,” Sam said. “He was stoking himself into pulling that Remmy on me. I figured it better to stop him before he went too far.” As he spoke he picked up the shiny gun, wiped it off and handed it to Clayton Boyle. The serious-looking gunman stuck it down into his waist.
“Are you here to back the sheriff’s play?” Boyle asked in a blunt tone.
Sam stared at him.
“What play is that?” he asked coolly, with a fixed stare.
“Typical lawman,” Rudabaugh cut in quickly as if to change the subject. “No offense, but do all you lawmen answer a question with a question?”
“Do we?” Sam said flatly. Hearing Donald Ferry breathing a little steadier beside him, he touched the brim of his sombrero and took a step back. He caught a glimpse of Stone walking out into the street, facing his direction, a raised rifle in hand.
“We’re not out to break any laws here,” Rudabaugh called out.
“We’re here overseeing things—making sure things go smooth for Edsel Centrila with his new businesses,” Boyle added. Beside them, Donald Ferry straightened some more and wiped a sleeve across his mouth. He reached out toward Boyle, one hand still clasped to his aching chest.
“Give me . . . my gun . . . I’ll kill him,” he rasped.
“Lower your hand, Dirty Donald,” said Boyle, “or I’ll kill you myself.”
• • •
Stone turned on the street and walked alongside the Ranger to the faded, run-down Hermosa Cantina. Inside the cantina the Ranger handed the empty shotgun sidelong to an elderly bartender, who broke the gun open and walked it behind an ornate but faded tile bar. Stone tapped his fingers nervously on the rifle in his hand and adjusted a sweet cough drop in his mouth.
“You sure put a dent in Dirty Donald’s apparatus,” he said with a slight grin. “I expect he won’t be singing in any choirs for a good long while.”
“He was working himself into a lather, Sheriff,” Sam said. “If I’d waited any longer, I would have had to kill him.” He paused, then said, “How’s the woman?”
“Mama Belleza’s all right,” said Stone. “One of her granddaughters is with her back there, settling her down.” He gestured toward the living quarters behind the cantina. “That was close. Had one of those gunmen shot her, it would have been self-defense.”
“I know it,” Sam said. “She’s lucky you saw it and stopped it when you did.”
Stone stood silent for a moment.
“Can I tell you something, Ranger, and you won’t call me crazy for saying it?” he said finally.
The Ranger looked him up and down.
“I didn’t call you crazy when you said you were a wolf,” Sam said. “What else have you got for me?”
Stone looked a little embarrassed.
“All right, I admit, turning myself into a wolf was just the ramblings of a fool,” he said. “But this is different. There’s times when I see myself involved in things before they happen. It’s like I see the future.” He stared at the Ranger for a response.
See the future . . . ?
Sam stared back at him, letting it sink in. The smell of stale rye and mescal loomed about them. Noting it, and realizing Stone’s struggle with liquor, he nodded toward the open door before the hesitant sheriff could speak. Behind the bar, the bartender raised a shot glass of amber rye to his lips.
“Let’s get out of here—get ourselves some fresh air,” Sam said quietly.
Stone looked over at the bartender.
“Being around it doesn’t bother me none, if that’s what you’re thinking, Ranger,” Stone said, the two of them turning, walking out of the whiskey-scented cantina.
“I understand,” Sam replied. “Tell me about seeing the future, Sheriff.” He stepped out off the boardwalk and looked down the empty street at the new sign atop the Silver Palace. Stone walked alongside him.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Stone said.
“Maybe not,” Sam replied, “but you did, so go on with it. Whatever you say is between us.”
“I’m glad to know that.” Stone nodded. “Maybe I shouldn’t call it seeing the future. There are times when things happen, and I know I’ve seen it all and heard it all before, the whole situation, every detail, every word spoken.” He scratched his jaw. “Maybe instead of calling it seeing the future I should call it seeing things I know have happened before?” He squeezed his eyes shut in confusion.
Sam considered it and shook his head.
“I’d stick with seeing the future if I were you,” he said quietly. “It might be easier to explain—”
“That’s it, poke fun,” Stone said, cutting him off. “I should’ve kept it to myself, same as I should about changing into a wolf.”
“I wasn’t poking fun,” Sam said somberly. He gave it a second, then asked, “Is this something you were already doing, or did you just start after you quit drinking?”
“I did it some before,” Stone said. “But it seems like I began doing it more once I started riding dry.”
“Any chance that’s got something to do with it?” Sam ventured.
“No,” said Stone. “Whether I’m drunk or sober has nothing to do with it. It happened out there today—Mama Belleza and her shotgun—and I haven’t drunk a drop of rye in over a month.”
Sam looked off toward the Silver Palace, watching customers hitch their horses to the hitch rail or park their wagons and walk into the saloon.
“Tell me all about it, Sheriff,” he said.
“It’s hard to explain,” Stone said. “Sometimes I’ll be doing something, saying something to somebody, and I’ll know what they were going to
say before they said it. Then I’ll say something back and know it’s all the same way it happened before—same words, same person saying them, everything. It’s eerie.”
Sam just stared at him.
“No,” Sam said, “I mean, tell me what happened out there today that you thought happened before.”
Stone sucked on his cough drop in earnest and eyed the Ranger closely for a moment.
“Forget it,” he said after consideration. “You think I’m being foolish.” He turned toward his office a block away and said over his shoulder, “Let’s go see how the doctor’s doing cutting out Dobbs’ bullet.”
Chapter 4
Inside the sheriff’s office, the two lawmen stood watching from outside the cell as Dr. Tierney inventoried his surgical instruments, wiped them with an alcohol-dampened cloth and placed them back in a leather pouch. Dobbs was still sleeping under the dose of powerful chloroform.
The Ranger gazed straight ahead through the open cell door and spoke sidelong to Stone.
“I don’t think you were being foolish, Sheriff,” he said, reviving the conversation that Stone had cut short only moments earlier. “I’m still curious what you were thinking out there when the woman swung the shotgun up.”
“Why are you so curious?” Stone asked.
“Because I saw how fast you acted,” Sam said. “It was almost like you did know what was coming next.”
“The way you saw what was coming when you butted Dirty Donald before he talked himself into trying to kill you?” Stone asked.
“Huh-uh, that was different,” Sam said. “I know what Ferry was apt to do if I didn’t stop him. But I didn’t think it was something that had happened before.”
Sheriff Stone paused and looked away in contemplation for a moment. Then he adjusted the cough drop in his mouth and let out a breath.
“It started the minute I asked if you ever heard of Silas Rudabaugh. You said you’d heard of him, but never had cause to meet him.” He looked at Sam and continued. “When you said that, I knew exactly what was going to happen next—right up to running to stop Mama Belleza, and the shotgun going off. Everything that happened seemed like it had happened before—”
