A Good Day to Die Read online

  An outburst of breaking glass ensued as the rest of them hurled empty glasses against the wall.

  A dawning light of comprehension showed in Bronco’s eyes. “Now I know why he thunk that up. No glasses, we can’t cadge no more free drinks.”

  “I told you—glasses we’ve got plenty of,” Mrs. Frye said. “Set ’em up, barkeep! Hell, give ’em each their own bottle if they want it!”

  “Now that’s what I call being sociable!” Luke exclaimed.

  “He’d storm Hell if you gave him a beer chaser,” Johnny joked.

  Upstairs, Monk stuck his head upside down through the trapdoor hatch, shouting, “They’s coming! They’s coming! The Staffords are riding into town!”

  TWELVE

  The Staffords and their Ramrod Ranch riders had come to Hangtown. They rode in from the south, going north on River Road between the town and Swift Creek. They rode in a column, twenty-one men in all.

  The point man rode alone. Vince Stafford. Patriarch and boss, he was proud, profane, upright, and unbowed. White-haired, gray-bearded, and thick-bodied, he was mean faced and scowling, and not necessarily because of his son Bliss’s death. It was how he looked most of the time. He wore a gun belt on his right hip and had a repeating rifle tucked into a saddle scabbard.

  Behind him, riding side by side yet as far apart as possible, were the two surviving Stafford sons, adults both, Clay and Quentin.

  Quentin—Quent—the firstborn, was hulking and brutish. As firstborn he should have been in line to be Vince’s inheritor. But Nature and the patriarch had long since determined the line of succession should skip the eldest and fall on second-born Clay. That, and Clay’s own cunning, ruthlessness, and quick gun.

  Quent resented the situation, but not enough to do something about it. The last time he dared to try, Clay pistol-whipped him into a whimpering heap. Known as “the Ramrod’s ramrod,” Clay was the one Vince called on to see that the dirty work got done and done right.

  Bliss had been the youngest, the “baby of the family.” He was Vince Stafford’s first dead son, a dubious distinction his father meant to capitalize on during the foray into Hangtown.

  Behind the Staffords, the Ramrod riders came on in threes, their precedence in the column determined by the pecking order of their gun skills.

  In the first nonfamily rank were Dan Oxblood, Ted Claiborne, and Kev Huddy.

  Oxblood was the only outsider, a gun for hire who’d been brought on for this venture. Thick, glossy brick-red hair was combed straight back from his forehead. He had green eyes, wore a black hat and garments, and a left-handed gun. He rode a handsome white stallion.

  Claiborne and Huddy were Ramrod regulars, though they were kept on the payroll for their skill as gun hands, not ranch hands. Claiborne, thirty, was heavyset, deliberate, slow-talking and easy-walking—quick with a gun. Huddy, in his early twenties, was skinny with a sharp nose, thick lips, and long, lank dirty-blond hair.

  In the next rank came Kaw, Dimaree, and Marblay. Good guns all, dependable and nervy. They lay somewhere on the cusp between working cowboys and gunmen. They could break a horse, ride herd, rope and brand a dogie with the best of them, their gun handling skills better than most.

  The same could be said of Duncan, Lord, and Carney, next in line. Top hands and good men in a fight.

  The rest of the bunch were ranch hands first, but any cowboy worth his feed must count a six-gun as one of his working tools and be able to use it quickly and accurately. They were all of that, and had less compunction than most when called on by the boss to kill a man.

  Most of the Ramrod outfit had come along. Only a handful remained at the ranch to keep an eye on herd and property.

  The group rode steadily at a measured pace. There was something formal and ominous, sinister even, about their deliberate gait. It had a funereal pace. They passed the grounds where the wagon train had been encamped, then Mextown.

  Vince Stafford slowed still more, reining in at Hangtree Trail running east-west at right angles to River Road. Once in town, the trail became Trail Street, keeping that name until exiting on the west side between the church and Boot Hill, then resuming once more as Hangtree Trail.

  Aware, attentive to his father’s actions, Clay Stafford raised an arm, signaling the others behind him to halt. The riders slowed to a stop, bunching up.

  Vince said, “Dress ’em up, Clay. The Staffords are coming to town. Let’s show ’em something!”

  Clay rose in the saddle, turning toward the rear. Cupping hand to mouth, he shouted, “Look sharp, men! Dress up those lines! Keep a length between each rank. Move!”

  A lot of shuffling, backing and moving around agitated the column in response to Clay’s command.

  “Me too, Clay?” Dan Oxblood drawled, his tone light, but on the right side of insolence—barely.

  “For a specialist like you, the rules don’t apply. But I’d think the great Dan Oxblood would just naturally want to show some pride of place,” Clay said, showing his habitual sneer.

  “Show that in everything I do,” Oxblood said genially.

  “For what you’re being paid, you should.”

  Kev Huddy snickered. Ted Claiborne looked faintly disapproving. Oxblood brought his horse in line with the other two in his rank.

  Vince Stafford said, “Tell the boys, Clay.”

  “You know what the boss said! Nobody makes a play until he gives the word!” Clay shouted.

  “I’ll shoot the first man who slaps leather without my say-so,” Vince rumbled, loud enough to be heard at the end of the column.

  Turning his horse’s head to the left, Vince made a left-hand turn onto Hangtree Trail, going west. He was about twenty yards outside the town proper. Rank by rank, the column followed. The patriarch set the pace at a slow walk,

  Shouts from somewhere in town testified that the Staffords’ arrival had not gone unnoticed. People began clearing off the street fast.

  Ahead lay the jail and courthouse. The building housed a trial room on the first floor; on the second floor were the various offices of mayor, notary, and town council. The administrative center of the county seat, it archived county records, trial documents, land titles, certificates of birth, death, marriage and the like. Open Saturdays for a half-day’s business, it was now closed. Across from its front lay a small plaza, a square of grass and some shade trees with a couple benches beneath.

  A slanted wooden awning protruded from the north face of the top of the jail. Leaning against the middle support post was Deputy Smalls. Seeing riders at the edge of town, he turned and went into the jail.

  Shoulder-high plank board partitions walled off the building into two halves, a gap in the middle of the wall allowing access to both sections. The front half held the sheriff’s office; the rear held four narrow cells, two each on either side of the center aisle. Three cells were empty. The fourth was occupied by a drunk who lay on his side on a wooden pallet facing the wall, snoring and occasionally crying out in a fitful sleep.

  Up front, on the east side of the space, stood a dark, wooden desk with a swivel chair behind it, the sheriff’s desk. It faced the front door. In the two corners on that side were cabinets with drawers for holding records. Most of the drawers were empty; Mack Barton wasn’t big on doing paperwork, and his deputy was barely literate. Sometimes Smalls kept a bag lunch in one of the drawers.

  Between the cabinets was a wall-mounted, glass-fronted gun locker lined with rifles and shotguns. Much of the rest of the wall was papered with an assortment of Wanted posters, some current, others years out of date. Standing well out in front of the desk was a brass cuspidor. The sheriff didn’t chaw, he smoked, but plenty of upright, taxpaying citizens did chaw and it was there to accommodate them. A square-topped wooden table with two chairs edged the front wall.

  Behind the desk sat the sheriff, smoking a cigar and reading a six-month-old copy of the Police Gazette.

  He looked up as Smalls rushed in, leaving the door open.

 
“They’re here,” Smalls said, excited but trying not to show it. Barton didn’t like it when his deputy got excited. He thought it was unprofessional.

  Barton didn’t need to ask who. He just said, “How many?”

  “About twenty.”

  “Where?”

  “Coming in from River Road. Coming slow, but coming.”

  Putting down his magazine and wedging the cigar in the corner of his mouth, Barton gripped the edge of his desk with big, meaty hands that had beaten many a malefactor and detainee senseless. With a great grunt he hauled himself upright, standing on two legs.

  “Lord! How I hate to get up out of my chair!” he said feelingly. His eyes glinted, a danger sign to those who disturbed the peace—his peace.

  Smalls crossed to an opposite corner, reaching for a shotgun he’d left standing there earlier.

  “The cells are empty except for that one drunk. Let him go and send him on his way,” Barton said.

  “Without paying no fine?” Smalls said, goggling.

  “He’s got no money to pay. You ought to know, you turned out his pockets.”

  Smalls didn’t deny it; Barton had been watching at the time. “Let him serve on the work gang.”

  “To hell with it. I got bigger fish to fry. The county can fill out its quota with somebody else.”

  “Mr. Hutto ain’t gonna like that.”

  “Who’s gonna tell him? You?”

  Smalls contrived to look shocked and indignant at the same time. “You know me better than that, Mack! I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  “All right, I didn’t ask for a testimonial. Shake a leg and shoo the rumpot out of the cell.”

  “I checked on him a little while ago. He’s dead drunk!”

  “Drag him out back and leave him in the alley,” Barton said. Before the other could comply, the sheriff thought better of it. “No. It don’t look good to have a drunk sleeping it off behind the jail. Let him be where he is, it’s his lookout. Hell, whatever happens he’ll probably sleep through the whole thing.”

  “Okay, Mack.”

  “Let’s get to it, then.” They went out, Barton locking the front door behind him. “If we both get killed, the poor guy ’ll probably starve to death in there.” The thought tickled him and he chuckled.

  He looked east on Trail Street and saw the Ramrod riders coming in. “Head over to the Cattleman and spread the word. You know what to do.”

  “Let me go with you, Mack,” Smalls urged. “I’ll cover your back.”

  “No sense both of us getting killed,” Barton said

  The deputy’s face fell. “Think it’ll be that bad?”

  “Naw. If I did, I’d send you and I’d go to the Cattleman.”

  Smalls looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “That’s a joke, jackass,” Barton snapped.

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t want to provoke Stafford any more than I have to—which is what the sight of you and that shotgun would do.”

  “Shoot, there ain’t no getting on his good side, no matter what you do.”

  Barton was plesantly surprised by this glimmer of wit. “You’re catching on, Deputy. There may be hope for you yet.”

  “I’d like to go along, though.”

  “Forget it. You just make sure Hutto does what he’s supposed to.”

  Smalls looked doubtful. “Mr. Hutto ain’t much on listening to other folks.”

  “He will when you tell him he won’t have much of a town left if he don’t play things like we planned. You tell him I said that. Get going, Deputy.”

  “Watch yourself, Mack.”

  “You picked a fine time to get sentimental!”

  “Hell, you’re the only one who ever trusted me—or hired me—to do a job ... that wasn’t kin.”

  “Do it, then. And remember, Smalls, I aim to be sheriff here for a long time. Now, git!”

  “Yes, sir!” Smalls hurried west on Trail Street.

  Barton stepped out from under the shade of the awning, into the sunlit street. He turned, facing east. Glancing down at his chest, he noticed that the tin star pinned over his left breast was filmed by dust. He swiped it with the sleeve of his right forearm, shining it up.

  Taking a last puff on his cigar, he tossed it away and started down the middle of the street toward Vince Stafford.

  Barton stood just past the courthouse with hands hanging easy and open at his sides. His expression, usually dour and harbitten, was more so. His narrow eyes shone like mica chips glinting in a rock face.

  The column of riders came on, spearheaded by Vince mounted on a big brown horse, a charger, a Morgan type quarter horse.

  The sheriff’s gaze followed the line of riders behind the elder Stafford. Waspish Clay and dumb, mean Quent rode right behind their pa. Quent was big, oversized. Clay with the quick gun was the dangerous one, fast and smart. Too bad he couldn’t talk some sense into Vince but then, nobody could.

  Barton looked at Dan Oxblood behind the brothers. Gunfighter, outlaw, he’d somehow wrangled himself a full pardon from Yankee Captain Harrison at Fort Pardee for services rendered in taking down the Harbin gang. He was a fast draw, maybe the fastest one riding into town. Dangerous, he could like you and still kill. He’d regret it, but he’d do what had to be done—or not. The redhead was a creature of whims, unpredictable. No telling which way he’d jump.

  Ted Claiborne and Kev Huddy were well-respected triggermen. Barton had never seen either of them at work, but he’d cleaned up after Claiborne in a shoot-out outside the Alamo Bar that left one foe dead and two others wounded.

  The sheriff knew some of the others, too. They were a bad bunch to mess with.

  Vince Stafford halted little more than a man’s length away from Barton. The others followed their paymaster’s lead, pulling up and reining in. Vince glared down at the sheriff. “You bucking me, lawman?”

  Barton shook his head. “Thought you’d like to see the boy first.”

  “My boy Bliss ...” Something like pain flickered across the part of Vince’s face not hidden by a bushy, snow-white beard—hard bright eyes nesting in wrinkled pouches, flat squashed nose, and wide belligerent mouth. A spasm of intense emotion, powerfully held in cheek, was quickly stifled.

  Barton indicated the courthouse with a tilt of his head. “He’s in there.”

  “Show me,” Vince demanded.

  “Sheriff’s trying to stall you, Pa,” Quent said, pronouncing it “shurf.” “You ain’t gonna fall for that one, are you? The gambler—”

  “He’ll keep,” Vince said curtly.

  “He’ll run, if he ain’t long gone already.”

  “Damon won’t run.” Clay sighed, weary of Quent’s stupidity, yet mocking it, too.

  “What makes you so sure?” Quent asked.

  “I’ve got eyes in my head and a brain behind them. I know people.”

  “Shut up, boys,” Vince said. He turned to Barton. “The gambler?”

  “At the Golden Spur. He ain’t running, though I wish to hell he would.”

  “You a friend of his?”

  “No, I want him out of town where he’ll be somebody else’s problem.”

  “Sensible enough, I suppose. Don’t worry about it. He’s my problem and I’ll fix it,” Vince said. “Take me to the boy.”

  Barton walked toward the courthouse front. Vince turned his horse and followed. Clay cut his horse out of the line, starting after them. Barton paused at the foot of the courthouse steps as Vince reined in, stepping down heavily from the saddle, joints creaking. He tied up his horse at the hitching rail.

  Clay halted his horse, Vince squinting fiercely up at him. “Where you going, boy?”

  “He was my brother,” Clay answered.

  “Oh? Where was you when Bliss got killed?”

  “The same place as you, Pa. At the ranch.”

  “You should’ve been with him to keep him out of trouble.”

  “Nobody could keep Bliss out of trouble, Pa. You know t
hat.”

  “You should’ve been there anyhow.”

  “I could run the ranch for you or I could nursemaid the kid, but not both. Each is a full-time job.”

  “So you chose not to be your brother’s keeper. Well, what’s done is done.”

  “Pa—”

  “Stay here. Keep an eye on our men and on your dumbass brother.”

  “Minding Quent’s a full-time job, too.”

  “Son, you are purely minded to argue with me and this is the wrong day for it,” Vince said, his voice thick with rising fury held down with difficulty.

  “Okay, Pa. Like you said.” Clay turned his horse to rejoin the others.

  Vince called after him. “Remember, they move on my say-so, not before.”

  “Sure, Pa.”

  Vince and Barton went up the stone steps of the courthouse to the double doors under the archway. Politely, Barton held a door open, but Vince brushed past him, opening the other door and stepping inside.

  It was cooler out of the sunlight in the entrance hall. The building’s lone occupant, a wraithlike figure at the far end of the hall, stopped pushing a broom and leaned on it, watching the two men approach, their footfalls echoing in the hushed space. A pace or two in the lead, Barton led the way to the closed door of a storeroom behind the staircase on the left of the hall.

  The sweeper bobbed his head respectfully, mumbling some unintelligible greeting to the newcomers as they walked past. He was old, reedy, bone-thin, a living, rheumy-eyed mummy.

  Yet Barton knew the sweeper was no older than Vince, possibly a few years younger. Stafford was a monster of vitality, an unnaturally energetic oldster by virtue of his domineering will.

  The storeroom door was unlocked. Barton opened it, and he and Vince went inside. A slanted ceiling followed the contours of the stairway under which it lay. A window was set in the west wall, butter-yellow sunlight shining through it. It had been left wide open to air the room out.

  The walls were lined with bookcases whose shelves sagged with old ledgers and record books—county archives. There were stacks of tables and chairs, mostly broken; some stepladders, buckets of paint, and stained, rolled drop cloths.