by Dale Graham
‘We’ll back you up with these if’n it comes to the crunch,’ professed Nightjar waving an old Colt Dragoon in the air. ‘Won’t we, boys?’ A murmur of concurrence rippled through the gathering.
‘We’ll start with the Troubadour,’ Cal declared, stepping forth in the lead of the unofficial posse. ‘You boys stay outside. Keep a sharp lookout through the window. Only come in if’n you see that I’m in trouble.’ A nod of agreement rippled through the thin ranks.
A deep breath, a girding of resolve filtered down through the lean, rangy frame. Inside the saloon, a jangling piano was being battered into submission by a drunken cowboy. His buddies were all jigging around in wild abandon. And it was only ten o’clock in the morning.
‘This is what we’re faced with all day, everyday, including Sunday,’ Mayor Wishart grumbled. ‘Soon they’ll tumble outside and start racing up and down the street firing off their guns.’
‘And this is only one saloon,’ added the morose figure of Nathan Clover, the bank manager. ‘There’s been another three opened up since you were shot down.’
‘Then I have a lot to do,’ Cal replied, oozing a confidence he hoped was being communicated to his associates. And with that he stepped briskly into the lion’s den.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Spellbound!
With a loaded shotgun in one hand and Navy Colt in the other, Bear River Cal stood in the doorway. His profile cast a long shadow down the middle of the saloon floor. For a moment nobody noticed the newcomer. But they soon got the message that things were about to change, radically. The shotgun blasted a hole in the ceiling. Plaster and broken lathes cascaded over nearby drinkers. Everybody turned quickly to see what had caused the cacophony.
Cal didn’t give them any chance to voice objections. One raucous cowpoke nudged by his buddy stumbled too close to the perpetrator of the mayhem. His reward was a gun butt over the head, which floored him. ‘As from now, this saloon is closed for business until further notice. Any objections should be addressed to my friend here.’
The lethal shotgun wafted menacingly in the faces of those nearest. They instantly cowered back. ‘I’m resuming my duties as marshal of this town as from now.’ A defiant gaze panned the room seeking out any dissension.
A bartender called Spider Jones made the mistake of moving to his right where a pistol was concealed beneath the bar. With everybody else stunned into silence and frozen to the spot, the move was easy to detect. Cal allowed the sneaky critter to palm the gun and raise it above the bar. A shot rang out. The hole in his forehead was plumb centre. Jones crashed back, his windmilling arms displacing a pile of glasses. The crash of splintering glass found the whole throng retreating as the perpetrator slowly advanced.
‘Anybody else have a beef against this, tell the mayor who is also resuming his official duties.’ He called over his shoulder. ‘OK boys, you can come in and take over. The Troubadour is now officially closed.’ Such was the rapid reversal of fortunes, that nobody voiced any further opposition. ‘And you can tell anybody else you meet that Lobo and Browny Jagus have just resigned . . . permanently.’
Cal’s supporters immediately began ushering the subdued patrons out into the street. ‘You boys want any more action, you’ll have to cross the river to Delano,’ Nightjar obligingly informed the stunned cowboys.
No further time was wasted on the Troubadour as Cal marched off up the street to the next den of iniquity. His success in the first saloon had buoyed up his self-belief. While Mayor Wishart and the others were sealing off the Troubadour, a few other residents began emerging from their stores to join the lawman.
‘Gee, Marshal,’ exclaimed Ike Robbins who ran the saddlery. ‘We all thought you were dead and gone. Is it really you?’
‘Sure is, boys. And I’m back in business. Are you ready to back my play?’
‘Never more so,’ butted in Smoky Joe, the tobacconist. ‘This town has gone to the dogs since Lobo took over as marshal. If’n you can get rid of Cody Meek and his bunch, there’ll be free Havanas for a year.’
‘That go for me as well, Smoky?’ piped up Nightjar hopefully.
‘Dream on, old timer. That offer is a one-off for the man in charge.’
Forced chuckles soon dissolved as the magnitude of their task permeated through to the core of each man there. One after another of the gambling joints, hen houses and saloons operated by Meek’s underlings surrendered to the blunt effectiveness of Cal Bonner’s town-taming proficiency.
Word quickly spread like a rampant prairie fire that the marshal was back in business. Ham-like fists in conjunction with the more usual hardware ploughed a furrow across the town’s wayward decadence. It was Billy Joe Crabbe who brought the disquieting news to the main perpetrators. He burst unannounced into Meek’s office upstairs in the Prairie Dog.
‘Don’t you ever think of knocking before busting into my office?’ the gambler scowled jumping to his feet. ‘This is a private meeting you’re butting in on.’ The two men had been assessing the profits accrued since the town had been thrown open to all comers.
The tough ignored the rebuke. ‘It’s Bonner. He’s back, and causing a heap of trouble. . . .’
Blaine interjected with a cutting retort. ‘What in hell’s name are you blathering on about? Bonner’s dead and buried.’
Crabbe shook his head. ‘I tell you he’s closing down all our joints.’ The ruffian’s panic-stricken declaration caught their attention. ‘And he’s got the backing of Wishart and the other lunkheads on the council. They’ll be here soon. What are we gonna do about it?’
The stunning news had thrown them completely off guard. Only Lobo appeared unphased. The gunman eased himself out of the easy chair where he had been lounging. His eyes narrowed to thin slits of ice. He knew where this was heading. ‘It’s obvious, ain’t it?’ he snarled while checking the load of his six shooter. ‘That sawbones hoodwinked us when he declared that Bonner was dead.’ A rabid curse burst from between pursed lips. ‘And I fell for it.’
Meek immediately took control of the escalating panic that was gripping his associates. ‘This is where you earn your partnership, Lobo. I brought you in here to make certain that critter didn’t cause us any more trouble. You failed. This is a second chance to make things right. Do it properly this time.’
Lobo stiffened. ‘Don’t you threaten me, hombre.’
His brother interjected before the disagreement got out of hand.
‘He’s right, Miguel. This is our chance to take that interfering zorrillo out once and for all,’ Browny Jagus iterated eagerly. ‘The two Valdez brothers acting as a team. What could be better? We’ll be famous. Nobody will dare challenge us once word spreads across the territory how we bested Bear River Cal Bonner. What do you say?’
Lobo smiled, impulsively rubbing the tin star on his chest. Yellow teeth bared in the grin of a rampant wolf. ‘I like it, Chico,’ he concurred, making for the door. ‘Let’s go have us a replay. And this time there’ll be no mistake.’
Cal knew that his final destination had to be the Prairie Dog. This was where he had been brought low. That trace of arrogance, the notion that he had become invincible had almost cost him his life. No more. Now he was well aware of the danger about to be faced head on. But face it he must.
Over on the far side of Kingman, Adele rung her hands as the man she had failed drew ever closer to the final countdown. Their eyes met. A brief melding of souls flitted across the dusty space. A moment of understanding. Then it was gone. There was work to be done. And all of the Bear River hero’s nerve would be put to the test in the next few minutes.
He paused at the alley adjoining the saloon where Nightjar was waiting with his magician’s props. The old guy had transported the armour plating in his wagon prior to Cal’s arrival in town. He now helped the marshal don the cumbersome rigout.
‘You sure about this?’ was the ostler’s concerned last-minute entreaty. ‘There are enough of us to put the lid on any trouble now.’
Cal spurned the offer. This was his business, and his alone. ‘Never more so, old timer. You just keep out the way along with these other folks. This is between me and Lobo now.’ And with that final certitude, he stepped forward to meet his destiny.
Pausing inside the saloon to adjust his vision to the dim atmosphere, his body tensed, hands bent like claws ready to make the draw of his life. Two men faced him at the far end of the room. Lobo and Browny Jagus slowly moved forward. It was the older Valdez who broke the silence.
‘Seems like you have more lives than a cat, gringo,’ he snarled out. ‘Well this is where the cat gets hung out to dry. Make your play.’
But his brother, dragging at the leash to get even, drew first. His shot blasted apart the heavy stillness. It was accurately placed and punched the victim back a couple of paces. But Cal did not go down. The old bucket armour had done its job. His own gun palmed, he returned fire.
Jagus staggered back under the impact of the lead balls. He clutched the bar top, hung there a moment, eyes wildly trying to figure out what had happened. His shots had struck the guy dead centre. But he was still on his feet. How could that be? Jagus was not given the chance to further analyse the uncanny cause. A third shot finished him off. The killer slid to the floor and stayed there.
Lobo cursed the impulsiveness of his brother. But he likewise was momentarily taken aback. Cal gave him no time to cogitate. ‘Always aim for the heart, Lobo,’ he hissed out, moving forward catlike. ‘That’s the only way you can take me down.’
The gunman took the advice. Three shots blasted out. The strange ringing noise from the sure-fire hits failed to register as the renaissance man continued his slow advance down the room. ‘What in tarnation is going on here?’ Lobo yelled as he backed off.
‘You didn’t go for the heart, Lobo,’ came back the casual reply. ‘That’s gonna cost you.’ Cal raised his gun and let fly. Lobo’s punctured body twisted round like a child’s spinning top. ‘This time it’s me that’s holding a winning hand and I’m calling in the chips.’
Cal stood over the fallen gunslinger. ‘H-how did you m-manage it?’ Lobo’s weak plea for clarification was smilingly revealed as Cal unbuttoned his jacket.
‘No magic. Just a bit of thoughtful defence against a couple of devious critters that don’t understand the meaning of a straight shoot-out.’
Lobo’s eyes bulged before rolling up into his head as he slid over to join his brother. Cal just stood there. His taut frame relaxed. But then he realized that this was not yet over. Not by a long shot. There still remained the two bastards who had hired this piece of scum. He was instantly reminded of their presence by movement on the floor above the saloon bar.
The time for skulduggery was over. He discarded the armour plating that had effectively done its job and backed away towards the door to reload his used Colt. He needed time to take stock of how to outfox those crafty shysters.
Hidden from view by a velvet curtain, Stonewall was mesmerized by what he had just witnessed. The tough had been despatched by his boss to observe the gunfight from the upper landing. And if necessary to intervene. The bodyguard had his own views on that course of action. If Lobo and his brother could not contain the illusive marshal, he sure had no intention of taking him on.
His eyes widened in shock on seeing their enemy brashly chop down the two Valdez brothers cool as you please, and without a mark on his own body. Stonewall’s hand was shaking. This guy must have a guardian angel looking out for him. He hurried back to the office to relay the startling information.
‘Lobo was . . . he and Jagus were. . . .’
‘Spit it out, you idiot,’ railed Meek angrily. ‘What in thunderation are you burbling on about?’
Stonewall gulped. ‘Bonner just cut the two of ’em down without any trouble,’ the dazed minion muttered. ‘And not a single one of their bullets had any effect. The guy ain’t human.’
Billy Joe Crabbe was equally worried at this sudden change of circumstances. Things were getting too darned hot to handle. He and his buddy had not signed up for this. Bonner was out for blood, their blood. And Billy Joe had every intention of keeping his own share of the red stuff inside his taut frame. A look of accord passed between the two underlings.
‘We’re pulling out, Cody,’ Crabbe said, edging towards the door.
‘This guy is too darned good for us,’ his partner added, following.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, boys,’ Meek rasped angrily. Then a cunning smirk creased his face. ‘But if’n you can’t handle him, there’s the door.’ Blaine gave the remark a puzzled frown. This wasn’t like Cody. Nobody walked out on him without payback. It came sooner than expected.
The two men gratefully thanked their employer as they hustled across the room. Crabbe grasped the door handle. But he never managed to open it. A slug from the hidden pocket pistol drilled into Crabbe’s back. The second shot took Stonewall out before he had time to register the dire peril the two pals had unwittingly instigated.
Meek blew away the smoke issuing from the twin barrels of the tiny gun. ‘Nobody pulls out on Cody Meek without my say-so.’
Like the two underlings, Blaine was also greatly disturbed by the blunt challenge to their domination. It had all happened so fast. One minute they were discussing the erection of a new dance hall, the next, that surreal lawman was tearing their plans to shreds. ‘It’s right though what Stonewall said, Cody,’ Blaine mumbled nervously. ‘That guy ain’t of this world. I reckon it’s time for us to split the breeze before this whole shebang comes crashing down about our ears.’
‘Guess you’re right there, Perry,’ Meek agreed, hustling across to the wall safe. ‘And now he’s gotten the council off their asses, the future don’t look rosy anymore for us in Wichita. We’ve made enough dough to set up some place else. I hear tell there’s a place further west called Dodge City that’s starting to attract attention.’
‘Good idea. I’ll go saddle the horses while you bag up the dough,’ Blaine said, going out the back way. He had an emergency bag packed in his quarters above the theatre for circumstances such as this.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Worm Turns
‘Looks like we have the town under our control once again,’ Mayor Wishart declared as he and the others joined the town tamer outside the Prairie Dog. ‘And it’s all down to you, Cal.’
But the official’s euphoria was short-lived. Suddenly a couple of shots from inside the saloon found them all hitting the deck. They had clearly come from the upper storey. ‘It’s not over yet,’ the marshal remarked, peering through the window. Nothing moved inside. No ghosts of resurrected gunslingers walked the boards. ‘Looks like Meek and his cronies are fighting among themselves.’
‘That’s good for us, ain’t it?’ Smoky Joe said breezily.
‘Not until every last one of those critters is eating dirt or clapped behind bars,’ Cal solemnly iterated. ‘My job isn’t over yet, boys.’
‘You will be careful, won’t you Cal?’ The dulcet tones set the town tamer’s heart racing. ‘I’d hate for us to be parted again.’ His head turned as the gathering moved apart to give them space. ‘How can you ever forgive me for being so selfish?’
All Cal could see was that lovely face framed by tumbling auburn tresses. Eyes like twinkling stars drew him in. ‘It’ll all be over soon, honey,’ he gulped. A croaking whisper struggled to voice his thoughts. ‘Then we can be together. And I promise to change my ways.’
But first there was the thorny matter of stopping those crooks from escaping justice. With the greatest of reluctance he gently edged her away into the waiting arms of Marge Gillett. ‘Keep her safe for me,’ were his final words. The widow nodded. A long-awaited meeting of minds, then he disappeared back inside the saloon.
Left to his own devices for a while, Blaine began to have doubts regarding his partner. Cody Meek was a ruthless predator who wouldn’t hesitate to toss his associates to the wolves should circumstances dictate. A s
elf-serving villain with no scruples. Blaine’s own shallow character went unheeded as his fertile mind began to conjure up the notion that Meek had all the dough and was intending to keep it.
Furtive eyes flickered around the empty theatre. Even now the varmint could be lying in wait, itching to gun him down. ‘Well you ain’t gonna get the better of me, buster,’ he railed angrily at the silent auditorium. He checked his gun to ensure it was fully loaded then cat-footed across the stage and down through the dressing rooms to the back door. And there he waited. Gun clutched tightly in his fist, Perry Blaine’s whole body tensed on hearing the approach of his allegedly cheating partner.
Hate oozed from every pore of his being as the back door to the saloon opened and Meek stepped outside. Blaine was ready for him. ‘Thought you could outfox me, didn’t you Cody?’ he snarled, pointing the gun at the saloon owner’s back. ‘Take all that dough for yourself. Well I’m onto your game.’
‘What in blue blazes are you talking about?’ Meek innocently protested. ‘We’re partners, ain’t we? I’d never run out on you.’
‘You won’t get the chance, buddy.’ His gun barked twice. Meek was punched forward. He never stood a chance. Whether or not he intended to fleece his partner would never see the light of day. He was dead. Blaine wasted no time in idly speculating on the truth. He snatched up the saddle bag containing the money and mounted up.
Inside the Prairie Dog, Cal was gingerly climbing the stairs. No sound could be heard. He had to assume the worst; that the two charlatans were lying in wait to chop him down. Peering round the edge of the upper corridor, he could see that the door to Cody Meek’s private office was open. With the Navy Colt leading the way, he crept stealthily along the empty corridor, steps muffled by the thick carpet.
A quick peak around the door revealed the bodies of the two hard cases. The reason behind their sudden death went unheeded. Cody and Meek had clearly fled the scene.
