Sidewinders#2 Massacre At Whiskey Flats Page 12
“I’m right here,” Jake Reilly said as the crowd parted to let him through. He carried a rifle that he had brought with him from the marshal’s office. “I heard the shooting. What happened, Bo?”
Bo sketched in the bloody events of the past few minutes for Reilly, musing as he did so that the young man had been careful to wait until all the shooting seemed to be over before emerging from the marshal’s office. No one else seemed to have noticed that, however, and Bo certainly wasn’t going to bring it up.
“Scratch and I would have arrested them,” he concluded, “but they didn’t give us that choice.”
McHale shook his head in dismay. “Four killings in less than a day.”
“That’s the sort of thing you have to expect when you bring in a fighting marshal like me, Mayor,” Reilly said, unknowingly echoing what Bo had told McHale a few minutes earlier. “Things are liable to get worse before they get better, too.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” McHale said. “I suppose you’re right, though. Progress doesn’t come cheap.”
The curious crowd spread out even more as Ed Chamberlain arrived, driving his meat wagon. The little undertaker looked as cheerful and cherubic as he had earlier. “Business is booming in Whiskey Flats today,” he all but chortled.
“Your business,” McHale muttered. With another shake of his head, he walked off toward the livery stable. Bo watched him go, thinking that the mayor’s reaction was all too typical. Folks wanted their messes cleaned up, wanted justice done, but usually didn’t want to have to see the bloody price that was often paid to do such work.
Bo, Scratch, and Reilly left Chamberlain and his helpers to do their grim work. Reilly headed back to the marshal’s office while the Texans returned to the barbershop. Jerry McCormick, the proprietor, was sitting in his own chair when they came in, gingerly massaging a swollen lump on his forehead.
“Did you get all three of the bastards?” he asked, wincing as the sound of his own voice obviously made pain shoot through his head.
“We did,” Scratch replied. “Glad to see that you’re all right. I saw you slumped in the chair when I went out, and hoped that those varmints hadn’t stove your head plumb in.”
“The ugly one buffaloed me with his six-shooter as soon as they came in. I reckon they didn’t want me calling out a warning to you.”
“Ever see any of them before?” Bo asked.
The barber’s broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I don’t know. There are always lots of hardcases like that around town. It’s hard to tell one from another.”
Bo nodded. “Well, there are three of them who won’t be causing any more trouble.” Something occurred to him. “Son of a gun. I forgot to get those clothes for Harry. I was just about to do that when the shooting started.”
He went to the door, intending to return to the general store and get the new garments Thatcher Carson had been gathering for him, but when he stepped outside he saw Rawhide walking toward him, carrying a paper-wrapped package.
Bo smiled and asked, “Is that what I think it is?”
“Harry’s new duds,” Rawhide replied as she hefted the package. She tossed it to Bo. “Here you go. I’ll wait out here.”
Bo took the clothes inside, and he and Scratch walked back to the bathing area. The bodies of the two gunmen still lay there, with flies starting to buzz around them. Harry Winston peered nervously over the edge of the tub. His sandy hair was plastered to his head by the water.
“You clean?” Scratch asked.
“I…I think so. It was hard to wash up with…with those two lying there like that.”
“Why? They can’t hurt you or anybody else now. Anyway,” Scratch went on as he eyed the now-brownish water in which Winston sat, “you got to be cleaner now than when you got in there. Haul them spindly shanks o’yours outta there, get dried off, and put these duds on.”
A few minutes later, Winston was dressed. Thatcher Carson had thought to include a pair of shoes in the package, which Bo had neglected to mention. Winston didn’t wear the tie, but he donned the white shirt and the dark suit and looked considerably different from the filthy, ragged scarecrow he had appeared to be in the livery barn.
“Where are my spectacles?” he asked Bo. “Like I told you, I can’t really see much without them.” A shudder ran through him. “I was sort of glad of that, so I didn’t have to look too close at those corpses.”
Bo took the spectacles from his pocket and handed them to Winston. “I tried to clean them a mite,” he said, “but I don’t think I did a very good job.”
“That’s all right,” Winston said as he unfolded them and put them on. “The world has looked rather blurry to me for a long time now. That was always…the way I liked it.”
They left the barbershop, with McCormick saying, “Sorry for the trouble, Harry,” as they went out. Winston just gave him a little smile and a wave.
“What now?” Winston asked. The former lawyer was licking his lips again, Bo noticed, and tiny beads of sweat had begun to pop out on his forehead.
“It’s getting close to supper time. Let’s get you something to eat, and maybe some coffee.”
Winston shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know…I’m not very hungry. I’m not sure I can eat anything.”
“You’ll feel better if you do,” Bo assured him.
“’Specially if you eat at the Morning Glory Café,” Scratch added. “Miz Dearborn’s got the best food in town.”
“I…I seem to remember that. Velma Dearborn was friends with…with my wife.” Winston pushed his spectacles up his nose. They slid back down. “She made…really good biscuits.”
“She still does,” Scratch said. He took Winston’s arm. “Come on, Harry. Time to start putting some meat back on them bones of yours.”
Ike the hostler must have continued running around town spreading the news, because when Winston and the Texans went into the café, Velma came out from behind the counter to greet Winston with a hug.
“Harry, I think it’s just wonderful that you’re going to be the judge,” she told him. “You’re cut out for something a lot better than mucking out stalls, and the town will be better off with a real judge, too.”
Winston smiled. “I just hope I can live up to that.”
Bo said, “We came to get something to eat for Harry.”
“And I reckon we could do with a surroundin’, too,” Scratch said. “It’s a mite early, but it’s never too early for a good meal.”
Velma laughed. “Come on, then, all three of you. We’ll go out in the kitchen. Won’t have to carry the food as far that way.”
They sat around the table where Velma and her cook, a handlebar-mustachioed Swede named Borglund, took their meals. Borglund’s accent was so thick that Bo and Scratch could understand only the occasional word he spoke, but they gathered that he was glad to meet them, that it was good to see Winston looking so respectable again, and that he would be more than happy to serve them all the pot roast, new potatoes, and boiled carrots that they could eat. He said that he would fix them something that sounded like lutefisk, too, but behind his back Velma made a face and shook her head, so Bo and Scratch declined the offer as graciously as possible.
Velma seemed able to communicate with the Swede just fine, so she got him busy cooking while she poured coffee for Winston and the Texans. Winston expressed his doubts about being able to eat, but Velma just said, “Hush up with that, Harry. You know you never could turn down my food.”
“No offense, ma’am,” Bo said, “but it appears that Mr. Borglund there is the one who’s doing the cooking.”
“From my recipes,” Velma answered with hesitation. “I think I have some biscuits left over from lunch that haven’t gone stale yet. Would you like to start out with one of those, Harry?”
“Well, I…I’ll try.” He took out a handkerchief that Carson had tucked in the breast pocket of his coat and blotted sweat off his forehead.
Velma took a b
iscuit from a basket that was covered with a piece of linen and handed it to him. Harry nibbled on it, not seeming to take much interest in the food. Velma looked at him for a moment, then said, “I think we could use a little more firewood for the stove. Mr. Creel, would you mind stepping out back with me to bring some in from the woodpile?”
“It would be my honor, ma’am,” Bo said. He caught the quick frown that Scratch sent in his direction. Scratch would have liked it if Velma had picked him to perform that little chore.
Bo had a feeling that Velma was interested in more than getting some firewood, though, and once they were outside she confirmed that by saying in a low voice, “You know that Harry’s been drinking that damned opium almost ever since his wife died, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, we do,” Bo replied. “He says he’s willing to give it up, though, if he can be Whiskey Flats’ judge.”
“That stuff’s harder to give up than liquor, from what I’ve heard.”
Bo shrugged. “Depends on how much booze a fella’s accustomed to putting away, I reckon. I know it’ll be a rough next few days for Harry, that’s for sure.”
“You can’t leave him alone,” Velma warned. “If you do, he’ll find a way to get some of the stuff.”
“Yes, ma’am, I expect he will.” Bo frowned. “We’ve been thinking about that very thing. What we need is someplace to lock him up—”
She swatted him on the arm. “You can’t do that. Harry’s got a sensitive nature. Lock him up and he’s liable to go plumb loco, as the cowboys say. You need a place where somebody can look after him all the time…and I don’t think you can do that while you’re busy being lawmen.”
“No, ma’am, probably not. If you’ve got any suggestions…”
“Leave him here with me,” Velma suggested.
“With you, ma’am?” Bo couldn’t keep the doubt out of his voice.
Velma nodded. “My living quarters are here in the same building as the café, and I’ve got a spare room. Harry couldn’t leave without coming out through the café, and either Ole or I would see him and stop him. He wouldn’t fight us.”
“I don’t know, Velma. I’ve seen men do some mighty bad things when they’ve really got a hankering for that stuff.”
She smiled. “You don’t know Harry Winston. He wouldn’t hurt anybody, no matter how bad a shape he was in. I tell you, he’s got the gentlest soul of anybody you ever met…but there’s a core of steel somewhere inside him, too. I’m convinced that it’s still there. If he wants to lick this thing, he can do it. At least, he can with a little help and Ole and I can give it to him.”
Her words were mighty convincing, and Bo had to admit to himself that she knew Harry Winston a lot better than he did. But he wasn’t ready to agree just yet.
“It wouldn’t do much for your reputation, a man that you’re not married to staying here with you.”
Velma laughed. “You think I give a fig about my reputation? Anybody who knows me very well will know that there’s nothing improper going on. And those who don’t know me…well, they’re the same sort who came sneaking around after my husband died, hinting about how they’d be happy to help out, me being a widow and all and having cravings…” She snorted. “People like that can just go to hell, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You make a mighty strong case, ma’am.” Bo nodded. “I reckon if it’s all right with Harry, it’s all right with Scratch and me.”
“Can you speak for Mr. Morton that way?”
“Oh, I think I can.”
In actuality, Scratch would probably be a mite peeved that Winston was staying with Velma. Having the former lawyer around would be a distraction when and if Scratch decided to pay court to the proprietor of the Morning Glory Café.
Scratch would just have to put up with it, though, because the solution Velma offered was better than anything Bo had been able to think of. He gathered up an armload of wood from the woodpile, since that was the excuse Velma had used for calling him out here, and they went back inside.
Winston had managed to eat about half of the biscuit Velma had given him, and he had taken a few sips of the strong black coffee. Bo thought he looked a little better. Not much, but a little.
Bo postponed breaking the news until after the three of them had eaten. The pot roast was excellent, moist and tender, and the potatoes and carrots were savory. Winston only picked at his food, but he ate some and managed to drink a whole cup of coffee.
When the meal was over, Bo said, “Harry, how would you feel about staying here at Mrs. Dearborn’s place for a few days?”
Winston’s still-watery eyes blinked behind the spectacles. “But…I have a place to stay at the livery stable. Mayor McHale didn’t just give me a job. He lets me sleep in the loft, too.”
Velma reached across the table and patted his hand. “You’ll be more comfortable here, Harry,” she told him. “And Ole and I can help you out if you get to feeling bad.”
“Well…you don’t think the mayor would mind?”
“I don’t think he would.” Velma added, “I don’t care all that much what Jonas McHale thinks anyway, do you?”
“He’s been good to me…” Winston took a deep breath. “But if you think it would be all right…”
“We all do,” Bo said, even though Scratch was frowning at him from across the table. Winston didn’t seem to notice that, and Scratch stopped frowning when Bo kicked him lightly in the shin.
“Uh, yeah, you go right ahead and do that, Harry,” Scratch said. “Heck, I’d jump at the chance to eat Miz Dearborn’s cookin’ three times a day.”
“You can do that anyway,” Velma pointed out. “You don’t have to live here.”
“Yes’m,” Scratch said.
“It’s settled then,” Bo said. He scraped his chair back. “Scratch and I will leave you here, and if you need anything, Harry, anything at all, you just send somebody to find us.”
“All right. Thank you.” Winston ducked his head bashfully. “It’s been a long time…since anybody really trusted me to do anything. I’ll try not to let you down.”
Bo patted him on the shoulder. “I don’t expect you will.”
As they were walking away from the café a minute later, Scratch asked, “Was that your idea?”
“Nope,” Bo replied. “Velma came up with it all on her own. She and her husband were friends with Harry and his wife. I expect she just wants to help him.”
Scratch sighed. “Lucky fella, gettin’ to spend all his time with a woman like that…while me, I’m stuck with an ol’ mossyhorn like you.”
“That goes both ways, pard,” Bo said with a grin.
CHAPTER 15
After all the excitement of the Texans’ action-packed first day in Whiskey Flats, the next forty-eight hours or so were relatively quiet. They made their rounds along with Reilly, who only occasionally made some impatient comment to Bo about wanting to start figuring out some way to cash in on this sweet deal they had stumbled onto. Bo kept putting him off, saying that they had to build up more trust from the townspeople first.
The next morning after the shoot-out between the Top-Notch and the Lariat, Mayor McHale held a hearing in the town meeting hall and fined each of the participants in the fracas fifty dollars, including the ones who were still laid up at Doc Summers’s place. A lawyer named Carrothers represented all of the men and paid their fines for them.
Instead of one inquest, there were four that morning, following the hearing. Ed Chamberlain was the local coroner as well as the undertaker, which was only logical, and the jury he appointed wasted no time in finding that the deceased had met their ends in an entirely legal manner, that is, being gunned down by the very star packers they were trying to kill. The proceedings were short and simple, with no lawyers to complicate and prolong them.
“Carrothers works for Dodge Emerson,” McHale explained to Bo, Scratch, and Reilly later. “Emerson’s the one who provided the money for those fines, I’m sure of it.”
The Top-Notch and the Lariat remained closed, the former because the owner, Big Mickey Tilden, was still recuperating from the serious bullet wound he had suffered at Reilly’s hands. According to Rawhide, the Lariat’s proprietor, Fred Byrne, was a nervous sort of gent and might have decided to pack it in after the big shoot-out. Or, she speculated, it was possible that he just didn’t have enough of a liquor stock left to open again, hundreds of bottles having been blasted to pieces while the bullets were flying around.
In fact, everybody south of the bridge seemed to be on their best behavior. There were only a few minor fights in the saloons, and no shootings or stabbings. It was the quietest stretch that section had seen in months, McHale told Bo, Scratch, and Reilly as he chatted with them in the marshal’s office.
“I don’t know whether to be thankful,” the mayor said, “or hold my breath waiting for the real storm to break. Because that’s what it feels like, the calm before a bad thunderstorm.”
“I guess folks are behaving themselves because my reputation has preceded me,” Reilly responded with a cocky grin. Scratch rolled his eyes at that, but Bo was the only one who saw the reaction.
“If this keeps up, we may not need Harry Winston to take over as judge,” McHale said. “We may not need a judge at all. How’s Harry doing, by the way?”
“He’s getting there,” Bo said, not wanting to go into the details. “I expect he’ll be fine in another day or two.”
As a matter of fact, though, Winston had been going through pure hell, and Bo knew it. He went to the café a couple of times a day to check on the former lawyer, as well as take his meals there. The first twenty-four hours, Velma had been grim-faced when Bo asked her about Winston.
“It’s the torments of the damned he’s suffering, Bo,” she told him as they shared a cup of coffee in the kitchen. “He can’t keep any food down, and he shakes and sweats all the time. I never saw a man so miserable. And every time I think he’s starting to do a little better, it gets worse again.”