Brutal Night of the Mountain Man Page 15

“That federal judge will just throw it out,” Witherspoon said.

  “No, he can’t. Murder is a state crime, not a federal crime. He won’t have any say-so on this one at all.”

  “He threw out the verdict on Kate and her boy, and those was both state crimes.”

  “That’s because he found fault with the trial,” Atwood said. “But we haven’t had a trial for Wes Fontaine. In fact, there never has been a trial for him, because he disappeared and nobody knew what happened to him. We know where he is now. Get some new paper printed up for him, and I guarantee you that the federal judge will do nothing about it.”

  “Yeah, but if we try him, and . . .”

  “Who said anything about bringing him to trial?” Atwood asked.

  “All I asked you to do is get a wanted poster out on Fontaine. Only don’t stop at just one this time. I want you to print up about a thousand copies and spread them around. Make certain they say dead or alive. That way anyone who wants to take on the job won’t have to go up against him face to face. When it says dead or alive, you’re just as dead if you’re shot in the back as you are if you’re shot in the front. And the reward is just as high.”

  “Who’s goin’ to pay the reward?”

  “It’s a Texas crime, so we’ll get the state of Texas to pay it.”

  Witherspoon shook his head. “Mr. Atwood, look, I’ve gone along with you on just about ever’thing you’ve wanted.”

  “And you have been well compensated,” Atwood replied.

  “Yes, sir, I have, ’n I’m real grateful to you for that, too. But what you’re sayin’ now, put out a flyer that’s near twenty years old, I don’t know. What if that flyer was withdrawn, like the one on Smoke Jensen was? I mean for Jensen, that was a flyer up in Idaho, ’n it didn’t much matter down here in Texas whether it was withdrawn or not. But this here was a Texas warrant, ’n if it’s been withdrawn, the state ain’t only not goin’ to pay the reward, but they could maybe charge whoever kills Fontaine with murder.”

  “You aren’t planning on trying to collect the reward on him, are you?” Atwood asked.

  “Well, no sir, but I couldn’t collect it anyway, bein’ as I’m a marshal.”

  “Then what difference does it make to you whether whoever kills Fontaine is charged with murder or not? Now just get the new poster printed, and put it out like I told you to,” Atwood ordered.

  “All right,” Witherspoon acquiesced. “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.”

  “But I can tell you right now, it ain’t goin’ to do you no good to print that thing. It ain’t goin’ to do you no good at all,” Witherspoon said.

  “Just do it, Witherspoon,” Atwood said.

  “Yes, sir, if you say so. Only, I don’t think it’s going to do no good.”

  After Witherspoon left, Atwood poured himself a drink and called for his butler.

  “Sí, señor?”

  “Sanchez, fetch Mr. Willis for me.”

  Sanchez nodded, then left on his task. A few minutes later Sanchez showed Willis into the parlor.

  “You sent for me, Mr. Atwood?” Bo Willis asked.

  “Yes, I’ve decided to make you the new marshal,” Atwood said.

  “You mean Witherspoon ain’t plannin’ on runnin’ in the next election?” Willis replied.

  “There ain’t goin’ to be another election. I’ll have Judge Boykin appoint you.”

  “What about Witherspoon? You mean he’s going to resign?”

  “I’m afraid Marshal Witherspoon has become somewhat troublesome and argumentative,” Atwood said. “Such a person can be deleterious to my long-range plans. His usefulness has expired and I need a new marshal, someone I can depend on. I can depend on you, can’t I, Marshal Willis?”

  A broad smile spread across Willis’s face. “Yes, sir!” he said exuberantly. “You can depend on me, for sure.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “This ain’t goin’ to do no good,” Calhoun said when Witherspoon ordered him to print up new posters for Pearlie. “This won’t be no different from the posters that we printed for Smoke Jensen.”

  “It ain’t the same thing,” Witherspoon said. “Jensen wasn’t wanted in Texas, Fontaine is.”

  “This was near twenty years ago,” Calhoun said. “You know it ain’t good now. Like as not, there don’t nobody even remember it.”

  “It’s murder,” Witherspoon said. “It don’t matter whether anyone remembers it or not. Now, get them posters printed up like I told you to.”

  “If you’re goin’ to arrest him, why do you need the posters printed?” Calhoun asked. “Why not just arrest him?”

  “Who said anything about arresting him?” Witherspoon asked with an evil smile.

  “This is Atwood’s doin’, ain’t it? He don’t want Pearlie arrested, he wants him kilt.”

  “What if it is?”

  “It ain’t right,” the deputy replied.

  “You want to turn your back on the money Atwood is givin’ us ’n just live on the salary the city pays?”

  “I’ll get the posters printed,” Calhoun said.

  “Yeah, I thought you might see it my way.”

  * * *

  It was dark by the time Calhoun returned to Etholen with the printed flyers. There was a huge difference between the daytime Etholen and the town at night. In the daytime the population was given to the normal pursuits of a small community, freight wagons rolling in out of town, the arrival and departure of trains on the Southern Pacific Railroad, and merchants and shoppers in the stores.

  At night, though, the population of the town increased precipitously, and its character changed, tone and tint. The cowboys who came into town did so in quest of fun and relaxation from a long day of work on the ranch, and most found that fun in the town’s two saloons. Liquor flowed, laughter, shrieks, loud voices, and occasionally gunshots sounded in the night. In some unfathomable way, the citizens of the town learned how to discern the difference between gunshots that were fired in celebration and those fired in anger.

  Calhoun rode down the dark street, sometimes passing through the golden bubbles of light that came from the streetlamps or was projected into the street from lighted windows. He stopped in front of the marshal’s office, then went inside.

  “Here they are,” he said, dropping the bundle onto Witherspoon’s desk.

  “I’ll get ’em put out tomorrow,” Witherspoon said.

  “This ain’t right. I mean especially if you ain’t even plannin’ on arrestin’ him.”

  “Make your rounds and quit your bitchin’,” Witherspoon said.

  When Deputy Calhoun came into the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon a few minutes later, he was holding one of the reward flyers in his hand.

  “Hello, Deputy,” Peterson said. “Making your rounds?”

  “Yeah,” Calhoun said. “Listen, is Kate’s brother in here?”

  “You mean Pearlie? Yes, he and the others are all sitting around the table back by the piano. See them?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Calhoun said as he started toward the table the bartender had pointed out.

  “Hello, Deputy,” Pearlie said when Calhoun approached. “Something we can do for you?”

  “Mr. Fontaine, I’ve got something I think you should see.”

  “What is it?” Pearlie asked.

  Without answering him directly, Calhoun handed Pearlie the paper he was holding.

  WANTED

  DEAD or ALIVE

  For MURDERING a SHERIFF :

  WES WESLEY FONTAINE

  Alias: “PEARLIE”

  $2,500 REWARD

  Contact: MARSHAL WITHERSPOON, Etholen, Texas

  “Damn,” Pearlie said after he examined it.

  “There’s been about a thousand of these things printed up ’n Witherspoon plans to have ’em all posted tomorrow,” Calhoun said. “I thought maybe you ought to know about ’em.”

  “Smoke, take a look at this. They’ve got paper on me, too. Where th
e hell did they come up with these things?”

  “Where did they come up with it, Deputy?” Smoke asked after he looked at the document. “This one, like the wanted poster Critchlow had on me, has been freshly printed.”

  “Yeah, look, it even calls me Pearlie. I mean when this happened, nobody called me Pearlie.”

  “I got it printed over in Sierra Blanca,” Calhoun replied. “Witherspoon sent me over there, ’cause he knew that Blanton wouldn’t print it here.”

  “You got it printed?”

  “Yeah, Witherspoon ordered me to do it. And Atwood ordered him,” he added.

  “You’re not looking to arrest me, are you, Calhoun?”

  “No!” Calhoun said quickly. “No, I’m not. Truth to tell, I don’t think Atwood wants you arrested, either, which means the marshal doesn’t want you arrested.”

  “Then I don’t understand,” Kate said. “If they don’t want him arrested, why did they have these old posters reprinted?”

  “They don’t want him arrested, ’cause they want some bounty hunter to kill ’im,” Cal said.

  “Oh, Pearlie!” Kate said.

  “Cal, must you be so blunt?” Sally scolded.

  “Sorry, Miz Sally, but you know it’s true,” Cal replied.

  “And he’s right, ma’am. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly why Atwood had them printed. I’m sorry to be the one to show you this,” Calhoun said.

  “No, you did right to show it to him,” Smoke said. “Better to be approached with a reward poster than a bounty hunter’s gun.”

  “Tell me, Calhoun, why did you show me this?” Pearlie asked. “Did Witherspoon ask you to?”

  “Ha, Witherspoon would just as well want you to not know nothin’ about it till some gunny took a shot at you,” Calhoun said.

  “Well, I appreciate the warning.”

  With a departing nod, Calhoun left the saloon.

  “You shouldn’t have come back to Texas. This is all my fault,” Kate said.

  “No, Mom, it’s my fault,” Rusty said. “I’m the one started all this when I shot Calley.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If you hadn’t shot him, he would have shot you.”

  “If it is anybody’s fault, it is mine,” Pearlie said. “I’m the one that killed Miller, and Marshal Gibson. And I’m the one that ran away after my name wound up on a wanted poster. I’ve put this off long enough. I think it’s time I faced up to it.”

  “Maybe so, but not with Judge Boykin,” Rusty said. “Boykin is an evil man who will do anything Atwood tells him to do.”

  “Rusty is right,” Kate said. “You won’t get a fair trial with Boykin.”

  “We could go see Judge Turner again,” Sally suggested.

  “That won’t do any good, Miz Sally,” Pearlie said with a shake of his head. “This happened in Texas, and unlike the dodger Critchlow had on Smoke, this one didn’t cross state lines. Also I’m sure it has never been pulled back.”

  “Judge Turner can order a change of venue,” Sally said.

  “What’s that?” Cal asked.

  “It means he can order that the trial can be held somewhere other than in Judge Boykin’s court.”

  “Well then,” Rusty said with a wide smile. “That’s something else. If you have a chance to have a fair trial, without Boykin having anything to do with it, then maybe everything will be all right.”

  * * *

  Bo Willis, Al Booker, Emile Clark, and Johnny Sanders were in the Bull and Heifer Saloon when Willis saw Calhoun step in through the batwing doors.

  “Well now,” Willis said. “We ain’t goin’ to have to look for Calhoun, there he is.”

  “Hello, Deputy. How are you doin’ tonight?” Bull Blackwell asked, greeting Calhoun when he stepped up to the bar.

  “Hello, Bull.”

  “Good to see that you are visitin’ my place tonight. I thought the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy was more your style.”

  “That ain’t true. I come in here as much as I go in there.”

  “Hello, Calhoun,” someone said, approaching the bar then.

  Turning toward the voice, Calhoun saw one of Atwood’s men. And “men” was the way he thought of it, because Willis wasn’t one of Atwood’s cowboys. He was one of the people Atwood called his special cadre, one of his gunhands.

  “Hello, Willis.”

  “Why don’t I buy you a drink, Deputy?” Willis asked.

  “I don’t know if I should. I’m on duty.” Calhoun paused for a moment. “On second thought, maybe I’m not on duty.”

  “What do you mean?” Bull Blackwell asked.

  Calhoun reached up to the star pinned to his shirt, took it off, then lay it on the bar. “I’m not on duty, ’cause I ain’t the deputy anymore, seein’ as I just quit. You know what I plan to do? I aim to get good ’n drunk, one last time. Then I’m goin’ to quit drinkin’ for real. I mean, if I ain’t workin’ for Witherspoon no more, I don’t see as I’ll have any need to be gettin’ drunk anymore.”

  Willis laughed. “There you go. Blackwell, give me ’n the deputy . . .”

  “I told you, I ain’t the deputy no more,” Calhoun said.

  “That is, give me ’n my friend a bottle. Come on, Calhoun, let’s me ’n you get us a table ’n get drunk together.”

  Willis took Calhoun back to the table where, earlier, he had been sitting with Booker, Clark, and Sanders. The table was empty now.

  * * *

  Booker left the saloon and went straight to the office of the city marshal. “Marshal?” Booker said.

  Witherspoon was sitting at his desk in the marshal’s office, playing a game of solitaire.

  “Yeah? What’s Atwood want now?” he asked without looking up.

  “No, this ain’t got nothin’ to do with Atwood. Did you ’n Calhoun have a fallin’ out over somethin’?”

  “A fallin’ out? No, what do you mean, a fallin’ out? What are you talkin’ about?”

  “I don’t know if he’s mad at you over somethin’, or if he’s just suddenly got ambition. But he’s over at the Bull and Heifer now, tellin’ Willis that he’s plannin’ on killin’ you the next time he sees you, then he’s goin’ to pin on your badge.”

  “The hell you say? Calhoun said somethin’ like that? That don’t sound like him. Unless he’s drunk again.”

  “Well, he is drinkin’, but he ain’t drunk yet, so it ain’t the whiskey that’s talkin’. But as for what he’s sayin’, I’m tellin’ you the straight of it, ’cause I was right there listenin’ to ’im. He said next time he seen you, he wasn’t goin’ to give you no warnin’ at all. What he was goin’ to do was shoot you down like a dog. Them’s his exact words. ‘I’m goin’ to shoot him down like a dog,’ he says. Then, he says, he’ll be the new marshal.”

  “We’ll just see about that,” Witherspoon said. “Where’d you say the son of a bitch was?”

  “He’s over at the Bull and Heifer. But I wouldn’t go in there if I was you. I’m tellin’ you, Marshal, he aims to shoot you on sight!”

  * * *

  “Hello, Clark,” Willis said when Clark came over to the table. “Why don’t you join me ’n my friend for a drink?”

  “There ain’t no time for that,” Clark said. “I come here to tell Calhoun, he’d better get out of town.”

  “Get out of town? What for?” Calhoun replied.

  “I don’t know what it is that you done to get Witherspoon all mad at you ’n ever’thing, but he’s tellin’ ever’one that he’s comin’ over here to kill you.”

  “Now that don’t make no sense at all. Why would he want to kill me?”

  “I don’t know, but if I was you, I’d get out now, before he comes over here.”

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Besides which, I’m not the deputy anymore, so nothin’ I do has anything to do with him.”

  Clark looked around to the others in the saloon. “Listen to me, all of you,” he said. “I just told the deputy here that the marshal is gunnin’ for him. I
want it well known that I give him the warnin’, and as to what he does about it, well, I reckon that’s his business.”

  “And I want ever’one to know that I ain’t the deputy no more, which means the marshal ain’t got no truck with me no more,” Calhoun said. He raised the glass of whiskey to his lips to show that he wasn’t concerned. He had just begun to take a sip when Witherspoon burst through the batwing doors, and burst through was the most accurate way of describing it.

  “Where is that scum-sucking son of a bitchin’ deputy of mine?” Witherspoon shouted. He already had his gun in his hand.

  Calhoun put the glass down quickly. “Marshal, I . . .”

  “Here I am, Calhoun! You want to shoot me?”

  Even as Witherspoon shouted his challenge, he pulled the trigger. Immediately after, both Clark and Willis shot back at him. Within a matter of a moment, both the marshal and Calhoun lay unmoving on the floor of the Bull and Heifer Saloon.

  “Son of a bitch! Did you all see that?” one of the saloon patrons asked.

  “What was that all about?” another asked.

  Clark and Willis still had the smoking guns in their hands. Willis put his gun away and checked Calhoun. “Calhoun’s dead. What about the marshal?”

  “He’s deader ’n a doornail,” Booker said, having come into the saloon immediately after the shooting.

  “What was that all about?” Bull asked.

  “I don’t know,” Willis replied. “You seen it same as we did. Witherspoon come in here just blazin’ away. Hell, we didn’t have no choice but to kill ’im. There was no tellin’ how many people he would shoot afore he was all done.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The next morning, in a brief ceremony held in front of “Old Thunder,” the cannon that the “officers and men” of Fort Quitman had donated to the town, Judge Boykin swore in Bo Willis as the new City Marshal of Etholen. Willis’s first act was to appoint Clark as his deputy.

  Almost immediately thereafter, Willis and Clark began strutting around town, showing their badges and exercising their new authority. Allen Blanton, editor of the Etholen Standard, called upon Mayor Cravens.