Wyoming Slaughter Read online

  Sin City sure wasn’t much of a place, with everything as temporary as could be built. It looked like it might blow away at any time, which is exactly what gave me some hope that I could shut it down without trouble. I didn’t care one way or the other, but I’d do my duty.

  I headed down the gangplank to the muddy shoreline, and headed downstream to the remaining boat, this one big and long. It was a large floating raft, a big collection of logs lying in the water, planked over and carrying a log cabin that housed the saloon. Rough-sawn lumber had been shaped into a saloon, and not a cent had been wasted on refinements, including whitewash or paint. Water slapped gently against the floating logs. The saloon rested lower than the other structures.

  I studied the layout and managed to peer inside a bit, enough to see that this was the most popular of the three pleasure palaces. It was full of wild young cowboys, some dressed up in kerchiefs, and plenty of them wearing sidearms. One kid even had a pearly handled revolver hanging over his wooly chaps. A bright, bristling wild saloon, miles from the law, and as dangerous as a place could be for a lone lawman on an errand.

  I saw several of the T-Bar boys in there, including Foxy and Weasel Jonas. George Roman, who ran the Lizard Lounge in Doubtful, was tending bar here. Well, that was maybe good. It meant that I wasn’t dealing with a stranger. Roman was a tough customer, but he would listen and weigh what was being said.

  I decided I’d cased the place enough and wandered up a wide gangplank to the bobbing deck, and into the saloon. I was spotted at once, and things quieted swiftly. There were plenty of eyes looking me over, and noting that I was not armed.

  “Well, Roman, you’ve got yourself a new saloon,” I said. “And the same old boys drinking it up.”

  Roman simply stared, as if I wasn’t worth talking to.

  “County Attorney Stokes tells me this is still Puma County; the line runs down the middle of the streambed. So you’re not legal here.”

  “So?”

  “So I’ll give you ten days to shut this down and get out.”

  “And what happens then?”

  “I’ll show up and enforce the law.”

  Roman smiled slowly. “I’m sure you will, Pickens. And we’ll start a cemetery. Who we gonna put in there? Maybe Stokes? Maybe Grosbeak? I tell you what. The first hole will be for Eve Grosbeak.”

  “You could move across the river, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. There’s no trade over there. My trade’s right here. And no one has to take a ferry to come here.”

  “Well, then, I have nothing more to say. April fifteen is the day, Roman.”

  “Sure, Cotton,” he said.

  “Hey, if it ain’t the sheriff,” said Wiley Wool, an Admiral Ranch hand. “How ya doing, old man?”

  “I’m still sheriff, but just barely.”

  “You come to shut this outfit down, did you?”

  “That’s what I’m doing, Wiley.”

  “You’re owned by the Temperance women, are you?”

  “No, but if there’s a law on the books, I’ve got to enforce it.”

  “Well, ain’t that something? You come out here to pay us a visit, did you?”

  I saw the way this was going and decided to back away. “I’ve done that. On my way, Wiley.”

  “Naw, I don’t think so, Sheriff. You ain’t on your way, not yet. Is he, fellers? Lookit him. He’s still dry.”

  “Dry, is he?” said another. “Guess we’ve got to fix that. We got us a little welcoming ceremony here, Sheriff. Man can’t come and drink with us till he’s been initiated.”

  They were going to dunk me. I decided to take a few with me, and the nearest was Wiley. I plowed into Wiley, sending the man’s drink flying, and pushed Wiley into the feller behind him, so they both staggered back. But when I went to grab a handful of Wiley’s shirt and haul him to the water, half a dozen young bucks leaped up and howled down on me. I saw Roman’s security man coming, too, and knew I wasn’t going to stay dry for long. I swung and slugged, but soon some arms pinned me, and I found myself wrestling more muscle than I could deal with.

  They were hooting. This was as good as it got for a bunch of liquored-up young bucks. I lunged, broke free, only to get chopped in the face and slugged in the throat, which caught the air and paralyzed me. And then it was over. They lifted me bodily, six of them, and carried me to the downriver end of the barge and pitched me off. I landed in the drink, feeling the thunderous cold of snow melt numb me instantly. The cowboys howled, watched me struggle as the river tore me away from the boat, and then they vanished inside.

  I knew I had to get out, and do it fast, in wet clothing and wet boots. And then as I righted myself I struck bottom. I was in shallow water. Those barges hardly had any draft, and there was little more than a foot of water under them. Shaking, I waded gingerly toward the bank, gaining ground until I could clamber up the slippery slope and out. Water rivered out of my duds.

  The bunkhouses were not far, and I needed that heat instantly. But I headed for Critter first and led the wary horse toward the shelters, tied him to a rail there, and barged in. There were a couple of dozing cowboys in there, probably drunk. There was fire enough in the potbellied stove to keep the place warm. I tugged at my soaked boots, which didn’t want to pull off, and finally succeeded. I drained water out of them and set them next to the stove, upside down. I pulled off the rest of my stuff. My long johns were soaked and cold, so I got out of them.

  I sure as hell didn’t have enough in my kit to wear, and it looked like I would be stuck there all night getting dried out. I headed out into the dark, terrifying Critter with my nakedness, and brought my bedroll in. There wasn’t much in there, but I would have a pair of blankets and a slicker and a bunk and some heat. I draped my icy stuff around the potbellied stove as best I could, stuffed some slabs of cottonwood into the stove, wrapped myself in the blankets, and settled down on a hard bunk to get warm. I sure didn’t know what to do about anything. At least I was out of the river, but not out of the woods.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Something woke me a long time later. Moonlight spilled through the sole window. I studied the bunkhouse, not knowing why. There were probably half a dozen cowboys in there. The stove still radiated a little heat. I slid out of the bunk, felt my long johns, jeans, and shirt, and found them still damp, but icy. It would do. They would be cold on my flesh once I got out, but I had my slicker and bedroll to wrap myself in on the long ride home.

  I clawed my way into the damp long johns and then donned the shirt and pulled up my jeans. The stuff was clammy and miserable. I eased my foot into a boot and found it icy. That was going to be the worst of it, but I slowly dragged it up until my foot slid into its usual pocket. Oddly, it didn’t chill me. I got the other boot on, rolled up my blankets and tied them inside my slicker, and slipped into the night. Judging by the Big Dipper, which had rotated around to the east of the North Star, it wasn’t far to dawn.

  Critter, who had been tied to the rail all night and was feeling put out, bit me on the arm. I unwound the reins, led him away from the rail, and tied my bedroll behind the cantle. The horse was hungry. So was I. I studied the sin-town. It never slept, and even now a lamp burned in the saloon and another in the gambling parlor. A river breeze chilled me. It seemed to ride the current out of the mountains, bringing winter down to the valley where spring grass was rising. A hint of wood smoke caught in my nostrils, reminding me that there were half a dozen stoves operating there, one in each scow, others in the bunkhouse and the ferryman’s house. I saw several horses, their ears high and gaze alert, studying me and Critter.

  The river breeze was chilling me fast, turning my clammy clothes icy. I needed to do what needed doing and get out. I found my folded Barlow knife in my pocket. It would have to do. I walked gently toward the riverbank, fearful of arousing a dog, but nothing stirred. I eyed the log raft and two scows bobbing on the water, the occasional creak of the gangplanks the only sound. I tried liftin
g an edge of the gangplank and found it was loose. So were the others. Nothing attached them to the banks or the scows.

  I studied the dark windows, wondering if I was being watched. Well, I thought, the risk was worth it. I pulled the Barlow knife open and quietly sawed through the downriver hawser of the saloon raft, leaving the raft still tethered by its upriver rope. The dull knife didn’t cut through the hemp easily, but finally I severed it. I sawed through the downriver tether of the gambling parlor, and the downriver tether of the floating cathouse, and waited to see if that caused any notice. It did make the scows weave some, but no one sounded any alarm. I wondered whether there were poles aboard to steer the scows. None were visible on the decks. I set to work on the upriver hawser of the saloon raft, which was creaking from the new pressures on it. And when the knife severed about three-quarters of it, the rest gave way violently, with a snarl, and the black waters swiftly pulled the floating saloon away. I studied it just long enough to determine that it wasn’t being driven into a riverbank but was heading into the main channel. I set to work on the gambling scow and set it free. Its rope snapped hard as it fell apart, lashing me and making a crack that sounded like a gun shot. But the scow slid into the night, rotating clear around, drifting sideways downstream. At the last I severed the rope holding the floating bordello, using a little skill this time, letting the last strands separate slowly and without a crack. The black waters pulled it free. Its gangplank splashed hard and thumped the side, and I was sure it woke up several people, but no one bloomed in the moonlight, shouting. The saloon was already out of sight. The gambling parlor was rounding a broad curve of the North Platte, centered in the main channel. The floating cathouse soon followed.

  I studied the sleeping settlement known as the Crossing, where wood smoke layered the night air, and thought it was time to beat it out of there. The three scows were on their way to Nebraska, and no one on board had a way to stop them. It was sort of entertaining. I folded my Barlow knife and restored it to my damp pocket. Those fellers would be a little put out, but they’d asked for it. And I’d report to Lawyer Stokes that the Crossing was now as innocent as lamb’s wool. Stokes would be irate that I hadn’t arrested the whole lot and brought them in for trial. That’s the way Stokes was. He was less interested in solving a problem than getting what he could out of it, such as fines and jail sentences and acclaim in all the right circles. Stokes was a true-born turd.

  I collected Critter, who snarled at me, and I led the horse out of the Crossing and paused at a place that looked like it had a little fresh grass popping up. I let Critter graze a while, knowing he was mad at me for not taking the bit out of his mouth, which made eating real messy. But it didn’t matter. I sat on a slope, watching the distant settlement leak wood smoke, wondering if they’d give chase. They would know who loosed the barges, and knew where I was going. I heard a distant gunshot from downriver and realized someone onboard a scow was trying to signal the settlement. If the shots woke anyone, there’d be a scramble downriver to catch up and try to lasso the barges and drag them back. But even though there was a crackle of shots from downriver, no one in the settlement stirred. That was just fine.

  I robbed Critter of the rest of his breakfast and headed back to Doubtful, with a blanket wrapped around me to ward off the deep chill of my damp clothing. The funny thing was, I believed my success wouldn’t cheer anyone in town. It didn’t bring in any fines, which would disappoint the supervisors. It would thwart Lawyer Stokes’s plan to fire me and get a new and more obedient sheriff. I decided the best thing would be not to say a word. I’d keep my little triumph to myself. Maybe share it with Rusty. If anyone asked, I’d tell them I had given them ten days’ notice.

  I rode slowly out of the Platte River valley, and heard no more than the night breezes, while Critter picked up his feet and put himself into a jog, eager to dig his snout into some oats. Daylight arrived when I was still ten miles from town, and I enjoyed riding through the sweet quiet of dawn, watching the sun ascend upon the vast reaches of Puma County, illumine the snow-clad peaks of the Medicine range, paint them in gold, and climb higher. It would be a fine spring day. I reached Doubtful about ten, gave Critter an extra bait of oats and plenty of hay, while Turk watched disapprovingly, and combed out the sweaty hide under the saddle blanket.

  “You find anything out there?” Turk asked.

  “Regular hellhole. So nice I pretty near gave up my badge and moved in. More fun than around here,” I said.

  “Maybe I should move the livery barn out there. I’ve lost money ever since them Temperance women took over the town.”

  “You’d have a right smart trade at the Crossing, Turk.”

  “You clean out all them criminals?”

  “I told them they had to vamoose in ten days.”

  “And what did that get you?”

  “A dunking in the river.”

  Turk grinned slowly. “Cotton Pickens, you’re a hell of a sheriff,” he said.

  I knew the story would be all over Doubtful in about one hour, and thought that was pretty good. It was a regular knee-slapper.

  I walked over to the sheriff office. At first I thought Rusty was out of there, but then I found him asleep in one of the cells. Just why Rusty always slept in the smelliest cell I couldn’t say. Maybe he liked the smell of rancid puke.

  Rusty awoke with a start and rubbed his eyes. “You clean out all those sinners and make Puma County pure once again?”

  “They got ten days to give up their wicked ways, Rusty.”

  Rusty grinned. “I’m thinking of applying for town constable of the Crossing.”

  “They don’t need one, Rusty. They got about six toughs watching out. I couldn’t find a cemetery, but that probably means that the river’s it. Kill a man, send the body downriver.”

  “That’s called a victimless crime. No victim, see?”

  “What happened here?”

  “Just like you said, Stokes arrived with some paper an hour after you rode out, and told me to throw Sally Sweet into the jug. I asked him what for, and he said never you mind, some legal mumbo jumbo, and I said I’d think about it, and he jabbered a while and stormed out threatening to send me to the state pen. That’s where it stands.”

  “That was good, Rusty.”

  “Well, he gave me a lecture about virtue, which I endured, but just barely.”

  I smiled. It was good to be back in Doubtful, where every woman was a virgin, and every man was, too. I was tired, but I had to report, and decided to start with Stokes.

  I walked into Stokes’s lair and found the man reviewing his accounts. Stokes looked up, studied me, and grimaced.

  “Back so soon? No doubt you failed.”

  “There’s a little settlement there, all right. Three scows or rafts. A few people we know. I told them they had ten days to shut down or I’d come in with force and do it for them.”

  “You didn’t round them up? You didn’t act? You didn’t shut them down?”

  “No, sir. I visited each scow and told them they were in Puma County. George Roman’s got the saloon. He had the Lizard Lounge here. Cronk, Mrs. Gladstone’s gambler, was operating a gambling outfit. A faro game and two poker tables—and a pocket bar. That’s all his scow could hold. I don’t know who operates the bordello. Absentee. A rough customer keeping house for the owner.”

  “Let me get this straight, Pickens. You witnessed crime operating freely in Puma County and didn’t shut it down?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t. There were a lot of them, and one of me. And most of their house thugs were armed, and plenty of the drovers were, too.”

  “So you caved in, spoke some polite words, and scurried back to Doubtful.”

  “No, sir, I gave them ten days to shut down or I would do it for them.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “They threw me in the river, Mr. Stokes.”

  “Ah, some sheriff you are, Cotton Pickens. You let a mob of hooligans best you. I’m sure t
hey’re laughing.”

  I sighed. I hardly knew how to explain it. “Mr. Stokes, sir, this isn’t a dime novel. In a dime novel, the sheriff pulls out his two six-guns and blasts away, and the other gents start shooting back, missing the sheriff, of course, or creasing his flesh, and pretty soon the dime novel sheriff’s got them all defeated, with bodies here and there, and the rest with their hands high, ready to be marched back to town and thrown in jail. And then somehow he herds fifty people back to town and locks them up. Trouble is, Mr. Stokes, that’s not how it is in real life. I might have sprayed a few bullets, five in all, killed a few men, maybe some that wasn’t causing trouble, and then I’d be hit by about twenty men in there, and you’d never see my body because it would be tumbling down the North Platte River.”

  “That doesn’t excuse your cowardice and incompetence, Sheriff. I think there’ll be some changes in the wind, as soon as I report all this to the supervisors. Now you’ve alerted them out there at the Crossing, and it’ll be twice as hard to bring them to justice. You will cost us lives, Pickens.”

  “I guess you want a dime novel sheriff. Shoots fast, kills a lot, and never gets hit. Faster than anyone, and smarter than anyone. That it?”

  The county attorney licked his dry lips. “You’re exaggerating, of course. What we need is a competent sheriff who’s not a coward and has better than a fifth-grade education, and can think straight. And we don’t have one. And soon we’re going to get one. Do you understand?”

  “Guess I do,” I said. “But until you pull my badge, I’m still in office and I still got a job to do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I wanted to visit Sally Sweet and get the story, so I started down Wyoming Street. The town sure was peaceful. Spring was in the air. But I hardly got a block before Mayor George Waller accosted me.