Die with the Outlaws

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Merlin Boggs was leaning on the bar with his back to the man who had just challenged him. He didn’t have to turn around. He could see the bounty hunter in the mirror.

  “And who might you be?” Boggs’s voice was low and sibilant, once described as sounding like the hiss of a rattlesnake.

  “The name is Rufus Stallings. I reckon you’ve heard of me.”

  “I reckon I have,” Boggs replied.

  “But it don’t really make no never mind what my name is. When I go to collect my reward, your name is all that is important.”

  “Your name is important too,” Boggs said. “I expect the undertaker will need to know what name to put on your tombstone.”

  Stallings laughed, though it was a forced laugh. “The Undertaker talking about an undertaker. That’s just real funny. But you know what’s even funnier? The Undertaker bein’ buried by an undertaker.”

  In the mirror, Boggs could see that many of the other saloon patrons, having overheard the chilling conversation between the two men, were beginning to move toward the sides of the room. One of the saloon patrons wasn’t moving, though. He was standing back as if he were an observer only, but Boggs saw that, like Stallings, he was holding a gun in his hand. The only difference was that Stallings was pointing his gun directly at Boggs’s back, while the other man was holding his gun down by this side, doing so in a way that it wouldn’t be obvious.

  “Are you plannin’ on shootin’ me in the back?”

  “You don’t understand, do you Boggs? You’re wanted dead or alive. It don’t really make no never mind to the law how you’re kilt, just as long as I bring you in.”

  “Can I turn around?”

  “Are you sayin’ you’d rather be a-lookin’ at me when I kill you?” Stallings asked.

  “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

  “Sure, turn around. I don’t mind bein’ the last thing you’ll look at on the face of this earth.”

  Boggs turned to face his adversary.

  “Put your hands up,” Stallings ordered.

  “Why? You’re going to shoot me anyway, aren’t you?”

  Stallings chuckled. “I am at that.”

  Stallings lifted his hand slightly and started to pull the hammer back. Then to the shock of Stallings and everyone else in the room, Boggs drew and fired. Even as the first bullet was plunging into Stallings’s chest, Boggs whipped his gun around to aim at Stallings’s partner, who, astonished by what he had just seen, was just raising his own pistol, thinking to have the advantage of surprise.

  Boggs fired a second time and Stallings’s partner went down, as well.

  For a long moment Merlin Boggs stood there holding the smoking gun, studying the faces of all the others. Seeing awe and fear, but no challenge, he returned his pistol to his holster, then turned back to the bar to pick up his drink.

  “Mr. Boggs, that’s the damndest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” The bartender smiled. “Why, what you just done will make the Morning Star Saloon famous. I’ll sell twice as many drinks in here.”

  “Anyone want to tell us what all the shootin’ was about?” someone asked loudly. Looking toward the questioner, Boggs saw that two men wearing the uniform of the Cheyenne Police Department had just entered the saloon.

  “Hello, Sergeant Martel.” The bartender pointed to the two men on the floor. “That one is Rufus Stallings. I don’t know the name of that one over there, but since Stallings is . . . that is . . . was a bounty hunter, I expect that one is, too. Anyhow, both of ’em tried to shoot Mr. Boggs in the back.”

  “Yeah, bounty hunters like to do that, I hear. You got paper out on you, Boggs? Not that it would matter none to Enos or me,” he added, indicating the other uniformed officer who had come into the saloon with him. “Bein’ as we’re policemen, we couldn’t collect anything anyway.”

  “Who drew first?” Enos asked.

  “I would say Stallings,” the bartender said. “Only he didn’t draw, seein’ as he already had his gun out. That one over there, too, both of ’em already had their guns in their hands before Boggs drew.”

  Enos nodded and looked over toward his partner. “There’s nothin’ for us here.”

  The two policemen left the saloon, and as Boggs drank quietly, the other patrons buzzed in excitement.

  * * *

  Sean O’Neil had been in Cheyenne less than two hours before he heard the story of the shoot-out between Merlin Boggs and Rufus Stallings and Aaron Till.

  “Bam, bam,” the speaker was saying in his animated telling of the story. “I mean them two shots was right on top of one another, ’n the next thing you knowed, why Stallings ’n Till—Till, that was the other feller’s name—they was lyin’ stretched out on the floor, both of ’em deader ’n doornails. ’N they wasn’t standin’ right next to each other when the shootin’ commenced, neither.”

  “Who was the shooter?” O’Neil asked, imposing himself into the conversation even though the dialogue was between two men who were standing together several feet down the bar from him.

  “What?” one of them asked.

  “The shooter you were talking about. Would that have been the one they call the Undertaker?”

  “Yeah, it was. Do you know him, mister? I swear I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it.”

  “Is he still in town? I like to keep up with old friends.”

  “Yeah, just before I came in here I seen ’im a-goin’ into the Palace Café to take his supper. More ’n likely he’s still there.”

  “Thank you,” O’Neil said. He put a dollar on the bar. “Barkeep, give these two gentlemen free drinks as long as the money lasts.”

  “Why, thank you, mister!” the informative one replied happily.

  When O’Neil stepped into the Palace Café a couple of minutes later, he had planned to ask around to locate Boggs, but he didn’t have to. Sitting at a table in the far corner of the room with his back to the wall was a slim, wiry man. He was better dressed than most of the others in the café, with black polished boots and large-roweled Mexican spurs.

  O’Neil instinctively knew this would be the man he was looking for. When he approached the table the man looked up, appraising him with cool, green eyes.

  “You got somethin’ in mind?”

  The hissing sound of his voice so unnerved O’Neil that he hesitated for just a second before he spoke. “Would you like a job?”

  “I ain’t particular lookin’ for work.”

  “There’s no work involved.”

  “What kind of job is it where there’s no work?”

  “One that pays well,” O’Neil replied. “It is a job that I believe you would be very good at, Mr. Boggs.”

  “You’re hiring my gun, ain’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said it pays well. I don’t come cheap, so just how well is well?”

  “The pay is fifty dollars a week, and bonuses.”

  “Where is this job?”

  “Up on the Sweetwater.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Sean O’Neil. My partner Garrett Kennedy and I own the Straight Arrow Ranch there.”

  “Do I have time to finish my supper?”

  O’Neil nodded. “Yes, the next train doesn’t leave for another hour.”

  “Go buy me a new hat. I’ll meet you at the depot before the train leaves. You can give me my hat then.”

  “You want me to buy you a new hat?” O’Neil was surprised by the request.

  “Yeah, you can call it one of them bonuses you was talkin’ about.”

  “All right. I’ll buy you a new hat.”

  “I want it black with a low crown, sorta like this ’un,” Boggs said, picking up a hat that had obviously seen better days. He removed the silver band and handed it to O’Neil. “Put this around it.”

  O’Neil started to leave, then turned and looked back at Boggs. “Before we close this deal, I need to ask you about a couple of men—Matt Jensen and Tyrone DuPont. Have
you ever heard of either of them?”

  “I ain’t never heard of DuPont, but I have heard of Matt Jensen.”

  “What have you heard about Jensen?”

  “I’ve heard that he’s damn good with a gun.”

  “Are you as good as he is?”

  “I may be.”

  “I need you to be as good as he is. Actually, I need you to be better than he is.”

  Boggs chuckled. “No, you don’t.”

  “What do you mean, I don’t?”

  “If you’re plannin’ on me goin’ up agin Jensen, then I need me to be better ’n he is.”

  “Yes,” O’Neil said. “I see what you mean.”

  “Who is this DuPont feller? Will I be goin’ up agin him as well?”

  “I don’t know,” O’Neil said. “He is supposed to be our friend, but conditions might change. If our relationship becomes adversarial, then I shall expect you to be the advocate of my partner and me. But should that happen, I think you’ll have no problem with him.”

  “You got fifty dollars on you now?”

  “Yes, I have fifty dollars. Why do you ask?”

  “I’d like my first week’s pay now. Just to show me that you can pay me what you’re offerin’.”

  O’Neil nodded, then drew his billfold from his pocket and pulled out two twenties and a ten and handed the money to Boggs.

  “You ought not to walk around a-carryin’ so much money,” Boggs said. “I could kill you ’n take the rest.”

  “You would be a very foolish man to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs,” O’Neil said with an easy smile.

  Boggs chuckled. “Yeah, I would, wouldn’t I?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Spur and Latigo Ranch

  “I haven’t seen Jim so excited over anything in a long time as he is over this horse he is getting from Hugh,” Mary Ella said.

  Mary Ella and Lisa were having coffee together on the small table in the kitchen. Jim had declared his intention of buying a horse, and he and Hugh were out looking at them.

  “Hugh is excited about it as well.” Lisa chuckled. “He almost always finds a horse that he particularly likes, then when we have to take them to market, he worries that the horse will find a good home. With Jim, he knows this horse will find a good home.”

  “Hugh has been a good friend to Jim, and you have been a good friend to me.” Mary Ella sighed and shook her head slightly. “The funny thing is, when I was a schoolteacher and my husband was vice president of the bank, we had people that I thought were my friends. We took part in all the social functions. I was even president of the Women’s Club of Hays City, if you can believe that. Then, when Garland did what he did, well, you know what happened. Everything went downhill from there until I wound up a common whore.”

  “Trust me, Mary Ella, you may have been a prostitute, but there’s nothing common about you. And don’t think that I’m your only friend here. I know for a fact that the other ranchers’ and farmers’ wives consider you a friend. It’s just the so-called ladies of the town who look down their noses at you.”

  “Thank you for saying that.”

  “Besides, I may wind up in the same boat as you.” The tone of Lisa’s voice had gone from uplifting to somber.

  Mary Ella got a confused expression on her face. “Lisa, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Matt Jensen.”

  “What? What about him?”

  “I . . . oh, Mary Ella, I love Hugh, I really do. But there is something about Matt Jensen that—I can’t explain it, but I am so drawn to him.”

  “Lisa, I’m older than you are, and I think you will be the first to admit that I have a lived a life that, well, let’s just say that I am a lot more experienced than you are. Life is sometimes difficult and we are often faced with temptations, temptations to do something that is not like who we really are. You are only human. Hugh is considerably older than you are, and, let’s face it, Matt is a very handsome young man. Even I can see that.

  “All I can say is, don’t feel guilty for having thoughts and feelings, but please take my advice and don’t give in to them.” Mary Ella said, stressing the last five words. “Remember, Hugh loves you, and you have said yourself that you love him. A good marriage is much too valuable a commodity to throw away.”

  Mary Ella reached across the table to take Lisa’s hand in hers. Mary Ella’s eyes filmed with tears. “I just wish I had the opportunity to have one.”

  “You can.” The tone of Lisa’s voice was once again more upbeat. “I know how you can do it, and we’ll plan it together.”

  * * *

  It was about an hour before Hugh and Jim returned to the house, and during that hour Lisa had not only explained her idea to Mary Ella, but the two women had expanded upon the idea until they came up with a proposal to which both had agreed.

  “Mary Ella, I have found the most wonderful horse!” Jim said excitedly when the two men came in. “He’s a chestnut, with a graceful neck and eyes that can look right into you. I’ve already picked out a name for him. I’m going to call him Bosun, as in Boatswain’s Mate.”

  “Oh, what a wonderful name for him!” Mary Ella said.

  “I thought you might like it,” Jim said with a proud smile. “So, what have you ladies been doing while we were gone?”

  “Before I answer that, I have a question for you,” Mary Ella said, with a pensive look on her face.

  “Oh, you look serious.”

  “It’s a serious question.”

  “All right, what is the question?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a simple question, Jim, and it requires only a yes-or-no answer. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes, of course I’ll marry you!” Jim literally shouted with a broad, happy smile on his face. But the smile quickly faded, to be replaced with a questioning expression. “But how can we?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Lisa said. “Mary Ella and I have got it all worked out.”

  Jim turned to Hugh. “Hugh, do you have any idea what this is about?”

  “No,” Jim said. “But Lisa says she has it all worked out, so if I were you, I would start deciding on what to wear for the wedding.”

  Straight Arrow Ranch

  Shortly after O’Neil returned from Cheyenne, he and Kennedy sent one of their ranch hands out to Purgatory Pass to take a message.

  Rodney Gibson was getting twenty dollars to deliver the message, and though twenty dollars was a goodly sum, he wasn’t all that comfortable with the job. He had been told exactly how to approach the hideout so that he wouldn’t be shot. Of course, technically it wasn’t a hideout. The Regulators were supposed to be lawmen, and O’Neil had referred to the place where they were staying as a headquarters, not a hideout.

  Gibson rode east for several minutes after the V of Purgatory Pass came into view, then he stopped and held his arms out straight to either side. He held them there until it began to hurt, but just when he felt he couldn’t hold them any longer, a rider came toward him. He recognized the rider as Moe Greene.

  “Hello, Moe.”

  “What are you doin’ out here?”

  “I’ve brought a message from Mr. Kennedy and Mr. O’Neil to give to Mr. DuPont.”

  Moe Greene extended his hand. “Give it to me. I’ll give it to him.”

  “No, sir,” Gibson said, drawing the message back. “They said for me to give it to ’im personal.”

  “If you don’t give me the message, he won’t get it.”

  “That don’t matter none to me,” Gibson said. “I’ve already been give my twenty dollars for comin’ out here. I’ll just go back ’n tell ‘em you wouldn’t let me come in.” He turned to ride away.

  Greene called out to him. “No, wait. There ain’t no need in you goin’ back. Come on, I’ll take you in.”

  Of the two buildings inside the gorge, the seven Regulators who remained after the d
eath of Shardeen shared the larger building. DuPont had the smaller building all to himself. He was drinking coffee when Greene brought Gibson in to see him.

  “You’re one of the Straight Arrow riders, ain’t you?” DuPont asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you doin’ out here?”

  “Mr. Kennedy ’n Mr. O’Neil wanted me to bring you a message.”

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “I don’t know. He wrote it out ’n put in in this envelope. I didn’t figure it was my place to read it.”

  “You prob’ly figured right,” DuPont said, holding out his hand for the note. He read the message.

  It is imperative that you come see us as soon as possible.

  Kennedy and O’Neil

  To DuPont that had the feel of being summoned, and he had no intention of being summoned by anyone. “You go back and tell Kennedy ’n O’Neil—” He stopped in midsentence. He had a good thing going with the two ranchers, too good to let it go just because he was irritated with them.

  “Never mind. I’ll tell them myself. Wait until I get my horse saddled.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll wait,” Gibson said.

  For some reason DuPont seemed irritated by the note. Whatever the note said was of no concern to Gibson. He was just a cowboy, drawing twenty and found. It would be best to let the highfalutin people like DuPont, Kennedy, and O’Neil work it out among themselves.

  “They want me to come see ’em,” DuPont said half an hour later as the two men were riding back to the Straight Arrow Ranch. “What’s this about, Gibson?”

  “I don’t have no idea,” he replied. “Like I told you, I didn’t even know what was in the note. All I know is they give me twenty dollars to carry it out here to you.”

  “What if I had decided I didn’t want to come in?” DuPont asked.

  “Iffen you hada decided that you wasn’t goin’ to come, all I woulda done was ride back ’n tell ‘’m I give you the note like I was s’sposed to ’cause it don’t matter none to me, personal, whether you come see ’em or not.”