Bullets Over Bedlam

by Peter Brandvold

  Flagg and the deputies continued to the bar reaching across the back wall. The counter wasn’t just pine planks stretched across beer kegs, but an ornate mahogany affair with an elaborate back bar complete with lamps and mirrors. Obviously, the place had been built with high hopes for the town—hopes that the short-lived tenure of the gold boom had dashed.

  Flagg glanced at the barman standing behind the glistening wood—a burly, gray-haired, blue-eyed American who’d been slicing a chicken on the back counter when the lawmen had entered. He stood frozen now, cleaver in hand, regarding the lawmen with an expression of both apprehension and amusement, his blue eyes glittering.

  Out his dusty front windows, he’d no doubt seen the three-legged dog’s attack on Hound-Dog.

  He leaned on his fists, his glance dancing from one copper badge to another. “You boys shoulda let me know you was coming. I’d have baked a cake.”

  “Whiskey,” Flagg said.

  The barman set up seven glasses in a row on the pine planks. He ran an unlabeled bottle over each glass, splashing whiskey into each and a good bit on the bar. He corked the bottle, set it on the bar, and returned his gaze to Flagg as each deputy moved up to take his glass.

  Keeping an eye on Palomar Rojas as well as the door by glancing in the mirrors behind the back bar, Flagg threw back his whiskey.

  “Another?” the barman asked.

  Flagg shook his head.

  “It’s a long, dusty trail to Bedlam,” said the barman, lip curled wryly to show a chipped eyetooth. His face was big and clean-shaven, the eyes ironic. Flagg had noticed he moved with a limp. “The town’s so poor the Apaches don’t even bother with us anymore. Sure you wouldn’t like one more drink to cut the desert?”

  “Maybe just one more,” Flagg said.

  When the barman had slopped whiskey into each lawman’s glass, Flagg dug the Wanted dodger out of his pocket and set it on the bar. He picked up his glass and turned sideways, studying the dusty street before the saloon, running his eyes along the roof lines.

  If Hawk was here, he no doubt knew that Flagg was here now, too. No time for carelessness. The marshal knew from past experience that trailing Hawk was like trailing an old, wounded wolf—a wolf who’d slept too long in the moonlight.

  A wounded, half-crazed wolf. One that didn’t flinch at killing his old colleagues. In Colorado, he’d killed a young deputy, Luke Morgan, whom Hawk himself had not only trained but had considered a younger brother.

  “Seen that man around?” Flagg said out of the left corner of his mouth. In the periphery of his vision, he watched the barman turn the dodger toward him, bow his head over it.

  The man studied it for a half second, then turned the paper back toward Flagg.

  “Think you must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere.” The barman picked up the whiskey bottle. “Next round’s on the house.” He splashed more whiskey into the deputies’ glasses. Several had rolled cigarettes or lighted cigars. Hound-Dog stood with his back to the bar, cautiously studying the street. The man was a buffoon in some ways, but he’d acquired a reputation riding for Judge Bean in Oklahoma. Even the curliest wolves learned quickly not to underestimate him.

  At a table near the wall, the old bandito, Palomar Rojas, took a deep drag from a cornhusk cigarette, squinting down at the loose cylinder as if worried about spilling his tobacco. His old, dark face was obscured by smoke.

  The barman poured whiskey into Flagg’s glass. “I don’t make this stuff myself. It comes up from Mexico. It—”

  Flagg grabbed his Remington from its holster and shoved the barrel up under the barman’s chin, tipping the man’s head back. The man splashed whiskey onto the bar, over the Wanted dodger. The liquor dribbled onto the floor around Flagg’s boots.

  Pressing the barrel hard against the barman’s jaw, Flagg spoke through gritted teeth. “You might want to look once more at the likeness on that flyer. Make real good and sure you haven’t seen that man. He might be callin’ himself Hollis. George Hollis.”

  The barman looked down his cheeks at the whiskey-drenched flyer. His voice was pinched with contempt. “Maybe I did see him. Yeah. He rode through here about two days ago. Stopped for a drink, rode on into the mountains . . .”

  He looked at Flagg, his gaze flat, almost challenging. His eyes slitted, and the corners of his mouth rose scornfully. “In fact, I think he did say his name was Hollis. Yeah, Hollis. Chiricahuas prob’ly killed him out in those badlands west of town, poor bastard.”

  Flagg stared into the man’s sharp, insolent eyes. He set his thumb on the Remy’s hammer, had to will himself not to pull it back and squeeze the trigger.

  What did he expect from this backwater shit hole? Most of the town probably had paper on them. That’s why they were here. They’d sooner help the kill-crazy Apaches than any badge toters.

  Flagg glanced into the mirror behind the barman’s bulky frame. The old bandito, Palomar Rojas, was gone. His cigarette stub curled smoke up from a shot glass.

  Flagg lowered the Remington and glanced at the other lawmen, regarding him expectantly.

  “Have another round, boys. Relax.” He holstered the pistol and strode toward the door. “I’m gonna stretch my legs.”

  11.

  “WHAT’S YOUR NAME, MY PRETTY?”

  FLAGG pushed through the batwings and stepped onto the saloon’s front stoop.

  The vaqueros were gone, as were the two mixed-blood Arabian horses that had been tied to the hitch rack when Flagg and the deputies had arrived. Flagg repressed a snort. It would probably be a long time before the chilichomping waddies returned to Bedlam, after watching seven lawmen ride into town.

  Both Mexicans had had “long looper” written all over their sunburnt features and brush-torn clothes. They probably hazed beef back and forth across the border in small herds that, at the end of the year, added up to droves.

  Flagg looked up the street to his left, then to his right.

  Just beyond the fountain standing sentinel over the town’s shabby main square, a stocky gent in a low-crowned sombrero was riding out of town on either a big horse or a mule—it was hard to tell which from this distance. Flagg could tell from the slumped shoulders and the old hat, however, that the rider was Palomar Rojas.

  As the man’s retreating back was hidden by the dry, concrete fountain between him and Flagg, the marshal stepped into the street, again bringing Rojas’s slouched figure into view until the old bandito’s mount rose to the crest of a rocky rise then disappeared down the other side.

  Flagg scratched his dusty beard, then slipped his steeldust’s reins from the hitch rack and swung into the saddle. He turned the horse into the street. Door hinges creaked behind him.

  Hand slapping his Remington’s grips, he turned to see a girl standing in the doorway of a small general merchandise shop sitting kitty-corner to the saloon. A pretty, brown-eyed girl with thick black hair piled atop her head. She wore a white dress with a red sash around her waist, and a low-crowned straw sombrero, the leather thong sagging beneath her chin. She’d been laughing, her sparkling eyes and dimpled cheeks accenting the heart-wrenching beauty. But when she’d seen Flagg, her eyes flicking to the badge on his vest, the laughter began fading from her face, a cloud scudding over the sun.

  Inside the shop, a woman was speaking ebulliently in Spanish. A face appeared over the girl’s right shoulder—the broad, flat face of a much older Mexican woman wearing a long green apron, a pencil stuck behind her left ear. When the woman’s eyes met Flagg’s, she fell silent, glowering, placing one hand on the girl’s shoulder. The woman’s lips moved, but Flagg couldn’t hear what she said.

  Flagg smiled, dropping his gaze over the girl’s large-breasted figure, down to the bare legs and feet, smooth and brown. Comely Mexican lass. Odd, finding such beauty in a place like this. A single rose in a dung-splotched desert.

  It was said that Hawk had an eye for beauty. If so, he’d certainly had a look at this girl. Maybe he’d done more than just look.r />
  Something to keep in mind.

  The marshal pinched his hat brim and spurred the steeldust westward, turning left around the fountain.

  On the other side of the fountain, he glanced back. The girl had moved out from the shop and was angling northeast across the street, her head turned to regard the six sweaty, dusty horses tied to the hitch rack fronting the saloon.

  Flagg turned forward and heeled the steeldust into a trot.

  When the town’s shacks had receded behind him, the trail narrowed to a single, rock-strewn track twisting amidst boulders and brown desert scrub. To his left was the river and an old smelter and stamping mill. The buildings’ plank siding shone warped and sun-blistered against the stark, brown hills rising on the other side of the stream.

  Flagg halted the steeldust and looked around for Rojas.

  A din rose on his right. He turned to see a flock of blackbirds, winged shadows against the copper-colored mountainside, fly up from a large, lightning-split pine. A wide wagon trail was cut into the side of the mountain, switchbacking through cedars at a forty-five-degree angle. A rider moved out from behind the lightning-split pine.

  Rojas on a dirty cream mule.

  Probably heading back to his mountain hideaway. Flagg and the other lawmen had probably given him a good scare.

  The marshal let his eyes range along the side of the mountain looming above the village, his gaze shuttling back and forth along the ridge. After a time, he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the early evening glare.

  About halfway up the mountain, nestled amidst pines and boulders, a red-tiled roof shone brightly. Flagg stared, squinting.

  Beneath the red smudge of the tiles, bulky white walls appeared. It looked like a toy house from this distance, but a house just the same. The switchbacking trail led into the yard.

  Flagg stared at the house and the trail, his gray brows wrinkled. A grand house for such an old, used-up reprobate like Palomar Rojas.

  Curious despite himself, Flagg gigged the steeldust forward, then turned off the path and onto the road angling up the mountain. He’d climbed for fifteen minutes when he came to a sharp horseshoe curve overlooking a shallow canyon and offering a view of the house perched on a wide, sparsely forested shelf on the ravine’s other side, about two hundred feet above the curve.

  Flagg hid his horse in boulders several yards down the trail. He grabbed his field glasses from his saddlebags, then scrambled onto a rocky scarp rising over the canyon, sheathed in cedars and Spanish bayonet. Crouched low atop the scarp and concealed by the brush, Flagg doffed his hat, raised the glasses, and adjusted the focus.

  The hacienda swam into view, framed by ponderosa pines and pepper and almond trees, and wedged back against the mountainside like one of those rock dwellings Flagg had seen, built by ancient Indians. This place was elaborate, but its cracked adobe walls and the general forlorn look of the place bespoke the time since a more prosperous era.

  Still, a good hideout. High ground with plenty of cover, easily defended.

  Flagg waited fifteen minutes before a shadow flicked through the trees to the left of the hacienda. Rojas and his cream mule rode into the yard before the low adobe wall surrounding the house. The Mexican sat his saddle, holding his hands in the air. Flagg couldn’t tell—he was too far away, and Rojas faced the house—but he thought the man’s head was bobbing, his jaws moving.

  Finally, a shutter in one of the upper-story windows opened. A man hiked a leg up on the ledge. A big, well-put-together hombre. Even from a half mile away, Flagg could make out the square jaw and handsome features, the thick, dark-brown hair swept back from a widow’s peak.

  Hawk sat there casually, leg stretched out before him, resting a rifle across his thigh. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. His broad chest was encircled by a bandage, the white cloth standing out against the dark skin.

  Flagg’s heart hammered and his hands shook so that the glasses bobbed, obscuring the image. Finally, Hawk flicked a hand out, waving dismissively, then dropped his leg from the window ledge, retreated inside, and closed the shutter over the casing.

  As Rojas turned the mule and started back the way he’d come, Flagg lowered the glasses. His heart fluttered in his chest. Sweat glistened on his pale forehead.

  He swallowed a dry knot in his throat.

  He scuttled back from the scarp, stood, and scrambled back to his horse, turning it onto the trail and heading back down the mountain.

  Ten minutes later, he galloped past the dry stone fountain. The deputies had heard him coming, and had gathered on the saloon’s front stoop, holding beer mugs and shot glasses.

  Flagg halted the steeldust before them, his dust catching up to him, the deputies squinting against it.

  “Round up everyone in town,” Flagg ordered. “I want every soul left in Bedlam right here in front of the saloon in fifteen minutes!”

  The deputies looked at each other skeptically.

  “Move!” Flagg barked, leaning out from his saddle, jutting his red face toward the deputies.

  They jerked into motion, setting their drinks on the boardwalk and then striding swiftly into the street, casting wary glances at Flagg as they split up and headed toward the private dwellings in the brush and boulders behind the shops.

  When they’d gone, Flagg dismounted, tied his horse to the hitch rack, adjusted his gun belt on his hips, and strode through the batwings. He stopped two feet inside the room, resting his hands on the doors.

  The beefy bartender stood behind the bar, both fists on the polished counter. From beneath his shaggy brows he regarded Flagg. Flagg stared back at him, his mustache upturned in an icy smile.

  The lawman sauntered across the room and placed his gloved hands on the bar top. “You lied to me, Mr. . . .”

  “Baskin. Leo Baskin.”

  “You lied to me, Mr. Baskin.”

  Baskin pursed his lips, hiked a shoulder. “Why not leave him alone? I mean, the man does the job of a whole army, and he doesn’t waste time with . . .” The man’s sentence trailed off as he looked around for the right words.

  “Justice?” Flagg said.

  “The men he kills don’t deserve justice.”

  When Flagg just stared at him with eyes like flint, Baskin added, “Come on—you boys are just piss-burned ’cause he’s a better lawman.”

  Flagg’s right hand shot up, grabbed the crown of the barman’s head, and slammed his face down on the bar top.

  It made a soggy smack and snap.

  Wailing savagely, the barman lifted his head. His crushed nose sprayed blood, painting his apron. While his left hand grabbed the nose, impeding the blood flow, his right hand pulled a Navy Colt from under the bar. As he raised the pistol at Flagg, Flagg grabbed the gun with his right hand, jerked it from the yowling barman’s grip, and smashed it against the side of the barman’s head, laying open his ear.

  “Fuck . . . goddamn . . . asshole!”

  Clutching his nose with one hand, his ear with the other, the barman stumbled back, cursing loudly and dropping to his knees. Flagg grabbed a whiskey bottle and a clean glass, then turned and strode over to a table near the window.

  He set the bottle and the glass on the table, kicked out a chair, sat down, and splashed whiskey into his glass. He lifted the glass to his lips, froze, and stared at the hand holding the glass. It shook.

  Flagg scowled, threw back the whiskey, poured another drink, dug a half-smoked cheroot from his vest pocket, and fired it.

  He’d finished the cheroot and had thrown back three more shots when angry Spanish voices rose from the street. Out the dusty window before the saloon, a small crowd had gathered.

  Boots pounded on the boardwalk, and the batwings squawked. Bill Houston poked his head into the saloon, turned toward Flagg while chewing a cold cigarette. “The town council is now in session, Marshal.”

  Flagg threw back another half shot of whiskey, and rose. He adjusted the tilt of his hat, the position of his cartridge belt on his lean h
ips, then headed for the door.

  In the dusty street, less than a dozen Mexicans had gathered. They were talking in angry, hushed voices while the deputies stood around looking officious and holding their rifles across their chests.

  The group was mostly old Mexican women in sackcloth dresses and rope sandals. A small boy buried his head in a middle-aged woman’s skirt. Three old men in straw sombreros and serapes stood to one side, one smoking a corncob pipe and holding a small puppy in his arms, the puppy chewing at his gnarled, tobacco-stained fingers.

  The girl Flagg had seen earlier stood with a full-hipped, black-haired old crone, who wore a bloodstained, feather-spattered apron. The crone’s hands were bloody and tufted with chicken feathers. Her milky black eyes blazed at Flagg, her right shoulder shielding the pretty, full-bosomed girl.

  Dipping his fingers into his vest pockets, Flagg strode into the street. He stopped before the group, cast his implacable stare across the frightened faces.

  He let time stretch. “Anyone here speak English?”

  No one said anything.

  Flagg stepped over to the old man holding the dog. He patted the pup’s head, smiling. He pinched the dog’s right ear. It yipped and shook its head, tiny ears flapping. The old man slid his hand over the dog’s head protectively and stepped back, glaring at Flagg over his pipe.

  The marshal looked around the group of sullen, brown-eyed faces regarding him with fear and anger. His gaze stopped on the girl. He walked to her. The old woman grabbed the girl’s arm and regarded Flagg with pursed lips, her eyes blazing even more than before.

  Ignoring the crone, Flagg stared hard at the girl. She let her eyes flicker across his badge before dropping her gaze to the street.

  With two fingers of his right hand, Flagg lifted her chin until the lustrous brown eyes met his. The eyes crinkled slightly at the corners with defiance.

  “What’s your name, my pretty?”