Wyoming Slaughter Read online

  “Beats me, Rusty.”

  “And what are you gonna say? I mean, you got to be for something and against something.”

  “That’s not so hard. We’re against all them new laws and want to pull them up by the roots and get back to the way it was.”

  “And what are we for, Cotton?”

  “Getting the women out of there. This whole mess started with women voting. We got to repeal that. We’ll say that it’s not right, and women make good cooks and mothers, but they should let men alone. We’re the true men in Puma County. We’re the ones to run the place. How does that sound?”

  “Yeah, but they got voting rights in the state constitution, Cotton.”

  “Well, all we have to do is keep it out of the county. They can’t vote for county supervisors. They can vote for the governor, but not for county supervisors. We’ll pass that when we get in.”

  “You think that’ll work?”

  “Beats not having a job, Rusty.”

  “But what’ll we call ourselves? We need a name. We need something catching.”

  “The Puma Peckerheads. My ma always said a good joke wins the day.”

  “That doesn’t seem real funny to me, Cotton. I think we should be the Anti-Woman Party. That says it all, and no mistake.”

  “Suit yourself, Rusty.”

  That’s how it started. Pretty quick after the supervisors discharged me and Rusty, we got our dander up. There would be a hot contest for the Puma County supervisor board in June. Just about the first thing I did was ride out to the Admiral Ranch to get Big Nose George to run for office, but George said he’d rather be burned at the stake by Joan of Arc, so that was that. Me and Rusty decided the only other likely winner would be Cernix von Stromberger. That was a name and a half.

  It was sure odd, not being sheriff. The people of Doubtful didn’t know it yet, and greeted me as if I was still wearing the badge. But me and Rusty hiked down Wyoming Street to the old sporting district, where the only occupied building belonged to Sally Sweet.

  Cernix greeted us cheerfully. “Ah, the wayfarers of Doubtful. Come to arrest Sally, I suppose.”

  “No, sir, we ain’t lawmen anymore.”

  That set back the count. “You don’t say. What happened?”

  “The supervisors decided I ain’t doing my job, so they fired me and Rusty here, and they’ll put a few lumbermen in.”

  Sally heard the last, having emerged from her downstairs suite in a shimmery dressing gown. “What’s this? You’re out?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Grosbeak finally had his way with us, and we’re just regular citizens now.”

  “That spell trouble for me and Cernix?”

  “It could real bad, ma’am.”

  “You want some booze?” She smiled. “Now that you aren’t sheriff?”

  Rusty waved a hand. “I don’t know about him, but I’ll take one and a refill.”

  “She’s got a three-year hoard,” the count said. “It’s not enough. Dry spells last seven years. That’s the biblical dry spell.”

  But Rusty was following Sally into her boudoir, where she had a stash. “Here,” she said, handing him a bottle of Old Orchard.

  Rusty sighed and moaned, and began working the cork loose.

  “I don’t suppose you know what you’re going to do,” Cernix said.

  “Well, that’s what we came to talk about. Me and Rusty, we’ve decided on something real big. And we’ve got some real big stuff for you, Count.” I paused for effect. I wasn’t above being theatrical. In fact I paused until Sally and Rusty appeared, each with an inch of amber stuff in a tumbler. Rusty was looking almost happy, at least for a redhead.

  “We’re running for office. We’re running against the supervisors. We’re going to push repeal. And we’re going to push getting women out of politics.”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard. The trouble began when we got the vote,” Sally said.

  “Well, me and Rusty, we thought it over real hard. If women didn’t get the vote in Wyoming, that Temperance Union wouldn’t have gotten any power, and if women weren’t pushing to shut down your sporting house, it wouldn’t have happened, and if women hadn’t pushed for Sunday laws shutting everything down, we’d still be able to go to Barney’s Beanery on Sundays, and if women hadn’t deprived Doubtful of its revenue, there’d be no spitting laws for peace officers to enforce. So we’re running against it. First thing, we’ll repeal all that stuff.”

  “Who’s the third candidate? There’s three supervisors,” the count asked.

  “You.”

  “Me? But I’m titled.”

  “You’re a resident by marriage, and that’s all it takes.”

  “What will I say?”

  “That you’re Count Cernix von Stromberger, married to Denver Sally, and it’s time to throw the bastards out.”

  The count gazed at the blue sky outside, and at Rusty sipping real hard, and at me. “I’m in,” he said. “Now, have you formed a party?”

  “Well, me and Rusty don’t see eye to eye here. I want to call us the Puma Peckerheads and Rusty wants to call us the Anti-Woman Party. Maybe you could chime in.”

  “You’re the Puma Peckerheads,” Sally said. “It has just the right ring.”

  Cernix nodded. “The Peckerheads we are.”

  “I never got into politics before,” I said. “It’s sort of a pissing contest, ain’t it?”

  “More like a gunfight, except it’s words, not bullets,” Rusty said.

  “Not just spraying words around hoping to hit something,” Cernix said. “You’ll want to shoot words accurately, hit the target every time, and not ever miss. You’ll want to choose your words carefully, because the wrong word’ll come back and hit you.”

  “I’d rather be a gunfighter,” I said.

  “Here’s all it takes. You just tell it true. You just talk about what the supervisors did to this county, and you’ll win,” Sally said.

  We sat around her table sipping her booze and planning our campaign. The next day, the three of us went to the county clerk and got recorded as candidates. That’s all it took; word raced through Doubtful like lightning, and men gathered in knots on street corners to talk about it. I was pretty scared. I’d rather go after an armed criminal with my revolver than get into one of these spitting contests, but I was committed. Me and my running mates were going to undo a lot of trouble in Puma County.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Truth to tell, I couldn’t stay at Belle’s boardinghouse anymore. I had no income. So I knocked on Belle’s door and told her I was quitting the place.

  “But Cotton, you can’t do this to me. You’re my most honored guest.”

  “Well, I can’t rub two nickels together, Belle, so I’m outa here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Well, ah, I’ve been offered a place.”

  “Where, Cotton?”

  “Sally says she’ll take me until I become county supervisor and can pay her back.”

  “And what if you don’t win?”

  “I guess Puma County will see the last of me.”

  She looked sort of melancholy. “You could stay here if you want. A woman needs a little attention now and then. You could make me happy just be dropping by and giving your old friend a nice little hug or two, or maybe a few more.”

  “Well, I couldn’t do that for rent, Belle. It ain’t right.”

  “It’s so hard for a refined woman to meet the right men in Doubtful,” she said. “There are plenty of men, but so uncouth. I’m so tired of uncouth males I could almost scream.”

  “Well, Belle, when you get the mistletoe up next Christmas, just let me know and I’ll give you a real uncouth hug, the kind you might enjoy.”

  “You’re a brute, Cotton Pickens.”

  “My ma never told me I was that. She said I was a lot of things, but brute is a new one.”

  Women sure were strange. She acted like she was put out. I loaded up my gear, which wasn’t m
uch, and carried it down Wyoming Street to Sally’s, and put it in the room she had given me. I knew the room, all right. Its last occupant had been Chiquita Swivelhips, the Argentine Bombshell. She made a lot of money but then she took sick and Doc Harrison couldn’t cure her.

  It was a nice room, with a well-stained blue-striped mattress on the bed, and a mirror on the wall with pictures of saints poked into the frame. I felt right at home. I had wondered about saints for a long time, but had never met any. Now I had a mirror festooned with them, and they might give me some notions.

  I settled my razor and shaving mug on the commode, and headed downstairs.

  “I’m in, Sally. You keep tabs now, and when I’m elected I’ll pay you back. If I can’t pay you back, I’ll give you Critter. He needs a new boss.”

  “If you’re elected, you won’t need to pay me back. I’ll be in business again, Cotton.”

  “Well, I’ve got one vote, anyway,” I said.

  It was time to get out and campaign, and it was a good day for it, with the late March sun shrinking the dirty snow heaped here and there. Doubtful was having a festive day, with women out shopping and children caroming around like billiard balls. There were a few ranch wagons parked on Wyoming Street, which meant the outlying ranches were stocking up on beans and flour and coffee. I had no plan other than to introduce myself, ask for people to vote for the Puma Peckerheads, and thank them for their interest. Truth to tell, the whole business scared the crap out of me. I’d rather fight twenty hooligans armed with brass knuckles and knouts than go out and greet people. I hadn’t given a thought about what to say, either, except I was against women voting.

  Well, it’d be something to learn. I sure didn’t know how to stop strangers on the street and ask them to vote for me, but I steeled myself. I wished Rusty Irons was with me, or maybe Count Cernix, but they weren’t around, and I’d have to weather the ordeal by my lonesome.

  I thought I’d try out a man, first. I understood men a lot better. In fact, the young gent loading bags of barley into a ranch wagon was a man I knew, King Glad, from the Admiral Ranch. I had rescued King from real trouble once.

  “Howdy, King,” I said.

  The young rancher paused after settling a fifty-pound bag of barley into his spring wagon. “It’s the sheriff,” King said.

  “No, I got evicted. Lem Clegg, he’s the sheriff now.”

  “I hadn’t heard. Lem’s a good man.”

  “King, I’m running for county supervisor. Me and the count and Rusty Irons. We’re gonna repeal all this bad stuff that’s come down the chute. We’re gonna license saloons and all again, so your drovers can have a good time in Doubtful. And we’re in favor of keeping women away from the ballot box.”

  King Glad paused, his gray eyes surveying me and his expression solemn. “Sorry, Cotton, I’m a ranching man now, and I’ve put my wild times behind me—for good reason. If you try that platform out on my sister Queen, she’ll shoot you proper. If anyone tries to keep her from voting, she’ll blow his cajones to smithereens.”

  “Yeah, well, nice to see you, King. Give my best to Queen.”

  That didn’t go so well, but there were a lot of good folks in Doubtful just itching to repeal all these new notions.

  I saw another fellow I knew, Ole Petersen, a wheat farmer who was plowing up an entire section and putting it into winter wheat. Ole was loading some repaired harness into his wagon. Jim Scuttles, the harness maker, had been working on it.

  “Ole, it’s good to see you,” I said.

  “What have I done? Don’t accuse me. I hardly even get to Doubtful.”

  “Ole, I’m running for county supervisor. We need reform in Doubtful. It’s gone the wrong direction. A man can’t come to Doubtful anymore and have a good time.”

  Petersen glared. “The last thing I want is a good time. The last thing I want for others is a good time. We should all work and struggle and get ahead and be good to our children. That’s why I came here, to give something to my children.”

  “Ah, well, there’s lots of people who get real worn out herding cattle, and plowing fields, and they’d like some pleasant company in Doubtful. A vote for me will make sure that everyone’s happy.”

  “Happiness is the holy grail of fools,” Petersen said. “What they should do is tear down every building on Saloon Row, cover it all up with good earth, plant grass, and make a park of it, and destroy the memory of it.”

  “I see, well, nice to visit with you, Ole.”

  I wasn’t liking the campaign so far. Maybe Rusty would have better ways to win votes.

  Ah, but there was Mrs. Drago, wife of the town’s well-digger. She was dragging her unruly carrot-haired boy, Charley, with her. Charley looked like he’d rather be fishing.

  “It’s you, Sheriff,” she said with a smile.

  “Oh, I’m not the sheriff anymore, Gwendolyn. I got, ah, forcibly resigned from the high office, and now I’m a politician.”

  “What a pity,” she said.

  “I’m running for county supervisor, along with two others. We’re the Puma Peckerheads, as we named ourselves, and the Peckerheads want to defeat the mean bunch in there now.”

  “Well, I like the name, Peckerheads. It has a poetic sound to it.”

  “We’re in favor of bringing happiness to Doubtful,” I said. “We’ve got to drive the Temperance Union clear out of town, and let the men gather in their favorite saloons once again.”

  “Gathering? Is that what you call it? I call it fighting and getting drunk and spending the money that their families need for food and clothing.”

  “Well, lots of ranchers are happiest when they can come in, buy things, and have a drink before they leave Doubtful. And the Peckerheads are for that.”

  She slugged the whiny boy. “What else are you for?” she asked.

  “Repeal of women’s voting. Everything went downhill the day they got their nose into the tent.”

  “I believe you are referring to camels. I don’t think women wish to be compared to camels, Sheriff.”

  Well, some women look just like a camel, Mrs. Drago.”

  “I wonder if you’d name a few, Mr. Pickens.”

  “Oh, I think camels are real nice looking. Manilla Twining, she makes a wonderful camel, don’t you think?”

  “What I think, Mr. Pickens, is that men should be disfranchised, and women should have the vote exclusively. Then the world would be a better place. Good day.”

  I tipped my hat to her as she dragged the brat along by the ear.

  It sure wasn’t going the way I’d planned. But I’d hardly started, and with each encounter I could refine my approach, and after a while I’d be as smooth as a Tammany Politician. At least I had learned a few things. I had thought that pretty near everyone in Puma County was opposed to the Temperance reforms, but I was learning that a lot of citizens favored them, and favored shutting down all the life in the sporting district. The very thought of it made me ache. Maybe getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me.

  I was thinking about a bowl of soup at Barney’s Beanery when I encountered Eve Grosbeak and Manilla Twining themselves. I figured I was in for it, and I couldn’t just run down the nearest alley, which was between the Emporium and the Drover’s Rest. There they came, dressed for springtime in big hats with lots of artificial flowers on them, and looking like they owned the whole county. I decided just to root my feet into the ground and stand there like a solid oak and let them wash by me.

  But it didn’t work that way. They swooped down on me, full of good cheer.

  “Why, child, it’s good to see you. I hope you’re staying washed,” Manilla said.

  “We heard you’ve been relieved of office,” Eve said. “Amos could talk of nothing else all day. Are you enjoying it?”

  “I’m, ah, entering politics, ma’am.”

  “Why, so we’ve heard! That’s wonderful. It helps divide the vote.”

  “Ah, I don’t quite follow you, ma’am.”
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  “Call me Eve, sweetheart,” she said. “Manilla and I have filed for office. We’re running against our husbands. They’re too timid, and pussy-whipped, and we’re going to kick them out and take over. We’ve got more reforms in mind, and we’ll make sure they are enacted.”

  “You’re running against your husbands?”

  “Poor dears. They aren’t very effectual, you know, and everyone says we’ve got them under our thumb, which is semi-true. It doesn’t help their campaigns when everyone says they’re just pussy-whipped. And now you’ve come along, just as we’d hoped, and you’ll divide the male vote, and we’ll be elected.”

  “You mean you’re glad I’m running?”

  “You bet, dearie,” said Manilla. “You’ll get the reactionary vote. It would have gone to our husbands, but now with you in the race, all the males in town will divide between the Peckerheads and the Grosbeak clique. And we’ll walk in.”

  I was feeling mighty proud, having finally gotten some approval. “I’m just rarin’ to go, ma’am. I’m running on a Repeal Suffrage platform, and that’s getting people lined up who never voted before. Why, nearly every ranch hand in the county’s planning on voting for us.”

  “Cotton, dear, make sure you wash your socks regularly,” Manilla said. “It’s something you need to do.”

  They sashayed down the street while I watched their behinds sway. It was a pleasant way to spend a minute or two. But this whole thing was getting too complex for me. Now it was a three-way race, and those gals were running against their own husbands. Not a bad deal. Maybe I should be in favor of Female Suffrage. It sure was something to think about.

  I had hardly gotten fifty feet when along came the new sheriff, Lemuel Clegg, and one of his boys. Probably Barter. And the pair had shiny badges on their chests. Lem Clegg was built like a barrel, and all of it was muscle from felling logs and sawing them up. His boy was an even larger barrel, and even stronger. I envied them. Being built like prize bulls would help them in their job. A minor tap of a Clegg fist would send an adversary flying. The Cleggs were about ten times heftier and tougher than any cowboy that ever sat a horse, and had biceps that set women to swooning.