by Len Levinson
“Want a woman.”
“Take yer pick.”
“How about you?”
“Me?” She laughed. “I’m the boss. I don’t sleep with the customers. Who else you want?”
“Anybody.”
“You sound hot to trot. How about Elyssa here?”
She put her arm around a woman in her mid-twenties with wavy black hair who looked as if she might have some Mexican or Italian blood.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Stone said to her, taking her by the arm.
They walked together toward the stairs, and he didn’t take his eyes off the door. She looked at his profile and noticed his concern.
“Somebody after you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Hurry up. My room’s just around the corner.”
She hiked up her skirts and ran quickly up the stairs, and Stone followed, passing a drunken cowboy staggering downstairs, buttoning his fly. They came to the second floor, walked swiftly down a corridor lined with doors, and she unlocked one of them.
He followed her into a room that had a bed and a gigantic mirror facing it. She locked the door and turned around to face him.
“What have you done?”
“Some cowboys from the Rafter K are after me. They want to kill me.”
“They’re a bad bunch,” she said. “Sit down. You look as if you need a drink.”
She opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and took out a bottle as he walked toward the back window, stood to the side, and looked outside.
The only light spilled out the windows of the building, and he couldn’t see anything in the backyard. Evidently he’d lost them for the time being.
She poured two glasses of whiskey. “I had a boyfriend once who’d been an outlaw,” she said. “I know what it’s like to be on the dodge. What’s yer name?”
“John Stone.”
“Why’s the Rafter K mad at you?”
“I killed a few of ’em. Do you know where I can get a horse?”
“I can get you my horse.”
“That’d be too dangerous. It’s even dangerous for you here. Maybe you should go downstairs. I’ll give you some money.”
He reached into his pocket, and she placed her hand on his wrist. “Stop that,” she said. “You don’t have to pay me. Relax. Have a drink.”
He sat on the chair again, and she dropped onto the bed. He picked up the glass of whiskey and took a gulp.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“My last stop was Mingo.”
“You sound like yer from the south. So am I. I grew up in Tennessee. We had a farm, but then we came out here, and my father got killed by the goddamned Indians.”
The sound of chaos and confusion came to them from downstairs. Elyssa walked to the door and opened it a crack.
“What the hell do you think yer doin’?” said the madam, her gravelly voice channeled up the stairs and through the hallway.
“I’m lookin’ for a man about this tall!” said Dillon, and Stone imagined him holding his hand at Stone’s approximate height. “He come in here?”
“About half the men in here look like that.”
“Search the rooms!” Dillon said to his men.
Elyssa closed the door and locked it. “Get into bed!”
Stone moved toward the window, pressed his back against the wall, and moved the drapes slightly so he could look into the yard. He saw three cowboys with their guns trained on the back door.
“I said get in bed,” she told him, stepping out of her dress.
She hung it over a chair and wrapped a silk robe around her shoulders. Stone heard footsteps on the stairs, spreading out on the corridor outside the door. They heard a knock.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Open the door or I’ll shoot the lock!” a man replied.
She pulled down the covers of the bed, and Stone got between the sheets, aiming his guns at the door. Elyssa opened it.
“Don’t you know yer disturbin’ the peace?” she asked jovially.
“Out of my way!”
Stone heard her being pushed to the side, and footsteps moved toward the center of the room.
“Come out from underneath them sheets!” the voice said.
Stone aimed both Colts in the direction of the voice and pulled the triggers. His guns exploded simultaneously, and the bullets blew the sheet off him. It fell away and Stone saw a cowboy staggering in the middle of the room and other cowboys near the door.
Stone leapt out of the bed and fired at the cowboys at the door as bullets thudded into the mattress. Two cowboys at the door fell back, their bodies peppered with holes, and Elyssa ran into the closet as whores screamed downstairs. Stone pulled over the dresser and crouched behind it, thumbing cartridges into his guns.
He couldn’t jump out the back window because they had the whorehouse surrounded. He couldn’t go out the front door because that’s where Dillon and his men were. The dresser he crouched behind was flimsy. A head appeared in the doorway and Stone fired, but the head pulled back in time.
“He’s in there behind some furniture,” somebody said.
“Rush him!”
“You rush him, Dillon. I ain’t stickin’ my neck out anymore.”
“Somebody get a torch. We’ll smoke the son of a bitch out.”
Stone heard somebody running down the stairs. He looked at the window, looked at the door, and wished there were another way. If they set the room on fire, he was finished.
The bottle of whiskey was nearby. He reached for it and took a swig to steady his hands. He’d always told himself that if he ever was faced with death, he wanted to die fighting, and now his time had come.
He saw his whole life flash before his eyes. I’m too young to die, he thought, but he’d known men younger than he who’d died. He thought back to Crawford and the fight he’d gotten into with the men from the Rafter K. He knew if he had to do it over again, he’d do it the same way.
He aimed his guns at the door. Footsteps approached down the corridor, and a flaming torch was thrown into the room. Stone looked at it, and it was the leg of a chair with one end burning, giving off the smell of coal oil. It lay on the rug, and soon the rug was afire also, curls of black smoke rising toward the ceiling.
The door of the closet opened, and Elyssa screamed, “Fire!”
“Dillon!” Stone shouted. “Let the woman out!”
“Send ’er through!” Dillon replied. “We ain’t after her!”
Elyssa came out of the closet, took one look at Stone, then ran out the door. A second later a cowboy’s head appeared, and he fired a wild shot at Stone, who fired back, but Stone’s shot wasn’t wild. The cowboy hollered, a bullet in his bicep, and he spun out of the doorway.
“Relax!” Dillon said to his men. “We ain’t in no rush! He’s gotta come out sooner or later!”
Stone looked as the flame spread over the rug, part of which was beneath the bed. The fire licked at the sheet and blanket, and now they were on fire, too. The room filled with smoke, and Stone coughed. An ashtray lay on the floor, and he threw it at the window, breaking the glass, and a moment later bullets from the guns of the cowboys outside flew into the room.
Stone pulled his bandanna over his nose. He could see the end coming. The smoke would force him to rush the door, and they’d cut him down. Or he’d jump out the window, and they’d fill him full of holes before he hit the ground.
He coughed again and tried to make up his mind about which to choose but then realized it didn’t matter. He was going to die no matter what he did.
He decided he’d rather take as many of them with him as he could, so it’d be the door. He’d jump up and rush it in a few more moments when the smoke got too thick.
The smoke rose and formed a large cloud underneath the ceiling. The cloud expanded and got lower every second, and when it reached Stone, it’d suffocate him. He prepared to make his last charge.
A voice hollered: “
Dillon, there’s a posse comin’!”
There was a pause, then Stone could hear Dillon: “How many men?”
“Fifty, at least.”
“Let’s get out of here!” Dillon bellowed. “Bring the horses around!”
Stone heard them running down the stairs. He looked out the window and saw a crowd of armed citizens approaching the rear of the whorehouse. The cowboys who’d been outside had run away. Then he heard gunfire at the front of the whorehouse, and someone screamed orders. It sounded like the war.
A solid wall of flame flickered in front of him, its heat searing his face. He covered his face with his arms, stood on the dresser, and jumped through the fire, feeling intense heat all over his body for a split second. The fire warmed his back as he peered into the empty corridor. A fusillade of gunfire erupted outside.
He stepped into the corridor, both his guns cocked and leveled and made his way to the stairs. Doors lining the corridor were open, revealing disheveled beds and clothes strewn everywhere. He could smell gunsmoke mixed with ladies’ perfume. As he descended the stairs, he saw the Beverly Volunteer Fire Brigade run into the downstairs parlor carrying buckets of water, looking around excitedly.
“The fire’s up here!” Stone called out to them.
They ran up the stairs in a long file, water dripping from the buckets onto the bare wooden planks, and Stone passed them on the way down. He came to the parlor and saw a bottle of whiskey and some glasses on a table. He walked toward it, poured a glass, drank some, then dropped onto a chair and rolled a cigarette.
He let himself go. Adrenaline still pumped through his arteries, and his heart beat rapidly. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Footsteps came to him from outside, and then a man with a badge appeared in the doorway.
“Are you the one they were after?” he asked Stone.
“Yes.”
“What’s yer name?”
“John Stone.”
The man with the badge was followed into the parlor by several armed townspeople, including the man whose library Stone had broken into.
“I’m Deputy Atterberry. What you do to them boys to make ’em so mad?”
“One of them said something I didn’t like.”
“They’re a bad bunch, the Rafter K. We got most of ’em, but a few got away. Have to ask you to come to the sheriff’s office to fill out an affidavit. How come yer in Beverly?”
“I’m looking for a wagon train,” Stone said.
After leaving the sheriff’s office, Stone walked into the Gold Dust Saloon. Straight ahead against the far wall was a darkened stage, and before it were tables and chairs, about a third filled with men and a few women, the latter most probably prostitutes.
Stone strolled toward the bar, his saddlebags over his shoulder and his rifle in his left hand. The bartender wore a goatee and his head was shaved. “What can I do for you?”
“Any more dancing girls tonight?”
“Last show was at midnight.”
“Whiskey.”
The bartender poured a glass, and Stone carried it to a table against the wall. He lay his rifle on the table and sat down heavily, pushing back his hat. Then he raised the glass to his lips.
He opened one of his saddlebags, took out his map, and tried to figure out where the wagon train was. He made some calculations, then some measurements, and marked a cross on the map. The wagon train would be somewhere in the middle of Indian Territory, and Stone figured he’d catch up with it in two or three days if he left first thing in the morning.
He put the map away and leaned back in the chair, wondering if he should spend the night in the hotel, between clean sheets, or sleep on the prairie where it’d be harder for somebody to find him.
Then he flashed on his horse. The last time he’d seen him, he was tied up in back of the Beverly Hotel, saddled and ready to go. Probably he was still there unless somebody brought him to the stable. Stone thought he’d better find the horse before he was stolen.
Stone gulped down the rest of the whiskey and walked out of the saloon. He’d missed the dancing girls and felt disappointed. There was nothing like dancing girls to lighten a man’s heart.
He stepped outside and crossed the street, heading for the alley beside the Beverly Hotel. This was the scene of his fight against the Rafter K hands, but now it was dark and peaceful, and the only people out were drunks sleeping on benches.
He passed through the alley, hearing his footsteps echoing off the walls. The end of the alley opened onto a backyard, and Stone saw his horse at the rail, the saddle on his back. Stone smiled, because that particular horse always had a lot of patience.
Stone heard a faint metallic snick sound behind him and dropped to the ground. A split second later a gun fired, and a bullet whisked over his head. Stone saw a man in a doorway, aimed his rifle, and pumped four shots into him. The man hunched over, dropped his gun, leaned to the side, and fell to the ground.
Stone ran toward him, the rifle in his hands ready to fire, and saw Dillon lying on the ground, wearing his black leather frock coat, but with blood all over it. Dillon’s eyes were closed and blood trickled out of his mouth. Stone’s volleys had stuck him in the chest, and he’d been dead before he hit the ground.
Stone glanced around cautiously. He recalled Deputy Atterberry telling him some men from the Rafter K had got away. Kneeling beside Dillon’s body, peering into the darkness, he didn’t see anything suspicious. He reasoned that if more men from the Rafter K were around, they would’ve fired with Dillon when Stone had been in the open.
Dillon had probably been alone, too filled with hatred to run away with the rest of them. He’d stayed behind to bushwhack Stone, but it hadn’t turned out that way.
Stone walked back toward his horse, untied him, then climbed into the saddle, pushing the rifle into its boot. He pulled the reins and wheeled the horse, then put the spurs to him and headed south toward Indian Territory.
Chapter Twelve
It was morning, and the wagon train was a few miles north of the Texas border. The women prepared breakfast, while the men checked the wagons and horses for the long day of travel that lay ahead.
“Somebody’s comin’!” shouted Stewart Donahue.
Taggart looked in the direction Donahue was pointing and saw in the distant flats the shimmering figure of a man on a horse. Taggart ran to the rear of his wagon and pulled his spyglass out of a bag. Raising it to his eye, he focused on the figure in the distance. Gradually the image became sharper. A big man sat on the horse, and Taggart would know those wide shoulders anywhere.
“It’s him!”
The travelers gathered on the side of the campsite that faced the oncoming rider. Jason Fenwick broke away from the others and ran across the grass toward Stone.
“Did you git my money!”
A deep bellowing cavalry officer’s voice came back to him over the hills and flats. “I got it!”
Fenwick jumped for joy then ran back to his wife, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her cheek. Together they danced a jig like a couple of lunatics.
Stone rode closer, sitting squarely on his saddle, a cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth and his hat low over his eyes. He’d been on the trail for three days longer than he’d thought, but he’d finally found the wagon train.
The travelers surrounded Stone, who pulled the saddlebags full of money off the rear of his horse and threw it at Fen wick.
The saddlebags fell to the ground, and Fenwick opened the flap eagerly. Thrusting his hand inside, he came out with a handful of money. He’d been the richest man on the wagon train, then the poorest, and now he was the richest again.
Stone climbed down from his horse, and Taggart walked up to him. “Where’d you find ’em?”
Stone pointed in a northeasterly direction. “Somewhere out there on the way to Rendale.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you after I get some shut-eye.”
Stone watered his hor
se and tied him to the rear of Taggart’s wagon. Then he climbed into the back of the wagon and lay down. In seconds he was asleep.
He slept all day, as the wagon train rumbled across the plains. Taggart rode up front as scout, and Cornelius Donahue drove Taggart’s wagon. Stone awoke in mid-afternoon and raised his head above the tailgate of the wagon. He saw the next wagon, driven by the Reverend Joshua McGhee, with his wife Doris and daughter Alice seated on either side of him.
His eyes met the eyes of Alice McGhee through the billowing dust. Lying down again, he rolled a cigarette. He wanted a cup of coffee but would have to wait until the wagon train stopped.
He felt restless after a few miles. Climbing forward, he sat on the front seat next to Cornelius Donahue, a young man with blond hair and a wholesome, innocent face.
“I’ll take those reins for a while,” Stone said.
Cornelius handed him the reins, and Stone felt the brute power of the horses pulling the wagon. Up ahead, Taggart was a tiny dot on the plains. Stone was surprised that the wagon train had experienced no serious difficulties with Indians yet.
The sun became hotter as the wagon train traveled south. Stone’s body became coated with a thin layer of perspiration. He sipped from the canteen lying in the boot.
Taggart rode back to the wagon train in the late afternoon. He saw Stone on the front seat and grinned wearily. “Glad to see you up. Looks like we got a problem. The water hole ahead is dry.”
“Where’s the next one?” Stone asked.
“About twelve miles. We won’t reach it today. You feel well enough to ride?”
“Yes.”
“Take my horse.”
Taggart clambered down from his horse to the wagon and sat on the other side of Cornelius Donahue. Then Stone jumped onto Taggart’s horse. He touched his spurs to the animal’s flanks, and it trotted forward.
The wind pressed against Stone’s shirt and cooled him down; he still was stiff and sore from his long ride back to the wagon train. He examined the terrain for signs of Indians, but all he could see were limitless vistas. Then he came to the dry water hole Taggart had spoken of.
Trees and bushes surrounding the water hole were dying from lack of water. Stone dismounted and touched his hand to the sand at the bottom of the water hole, and it was bone dry. He dug down a few inches, and it was dry there, too. Stone took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. This was their first dry water hole. He hoped the next one wouldn’t be dry, too.
