Deadly Day in Tombstone Page 2

  He had always been that way in his personal life. As a prime example, the first time he had seen the young, darkly beautiful Viola Howell over in New Mexico Territory, he had thought to himself that he was going to marry that girl.

  The same held true in his professional life as a cattleman and peace officer. His instincts had told him the San Bernardino Valley was where he ought to establish his ranch, and the spread had proven to be very successful. As for being the sheriff of Cochise County . . . well, right from the first time he had met Morris Upton, the Easterner who ran the Top-Notch Saloon and Gambling Establishment, he’d had to rein in the impulse to pull out a gun and shoot the man.

  That would have been the simplest and easiest thing to do, but it wasn’t exactly legal. As long as Slaughter wore the sheriff’s badge pinned to the lapel of his coat, he had to concern himself about such things.

  Upton crossed his mind only because he was thinking about gambling. Slaughter knew being a successful gambler was largely a matter of instinct . . . and following your hunches. That was why he had always been good at it. He was a careful, conservative man in many respects, but he knew when to take a chance.

  He laid down his hand—a full house, jacks over eights. “Beat that if you can.”

  The woman sitting at the end of the bed unbuttoned the man’s shirt that was the only thing she was wearing, took it off, and tossed it in a corner of the hotel room. She put her cards on the sheets between them.

  Slaughter didn’t even look at them.

  “Do I win?” Viola Slaughter asked.

  “No, I do.” Slaughter leaned forward, raked the cards off the bed with a sweep of his hand that sent them flying, and reached out to pull his wife into his arms.

  * * *

  Later, when the early morning sunshine slanting in through the gap in the curtains over the second floor window had grown brighter, Slaughter asked her, “Do you really have to go back to the ranch today?”

  “You know I do,” Viola answered as she snuggled warmly against his side. “No matter how much we might wish it was otherwise, the place won’t run itself, you know.”

  “It almost does. You know we have the best crew in the whole territory.”

  “Well, of course we do, but someone still has to keep an eye on things.”

  “And I say, no one is better at that than you, my dear,” Slaughter agreed. “All right. I’ve enjoyed your visit, but I suppose we both knew it had to end sometime.”

  Since Slaughter had been elected sheriff, Viola had split her time between the ranch and Tombstone. She wasn’t willing to move to town full-time, and he knew better than to demand that his strong-willed wife do anything she didn’t want to do.

  It wasn’t a perfect arrangement for either of them, but spending some time together was better than nothing. He wouldn’t be sheriff forever, Slaughter reminded himself whenever he got to missing his wife.

  However, Tombstone needed him.

  Although things weren’t as wild as they had been a few years earlier when the Earps and the wild bunch known as the Cowboys had battled to see who was going to hold sway over Tombstone and the surrounding area, life in Cochise County wasn’t exactly what anybody would call tranquil. Rustlers and road agents still operated in those parts and bandits raided from across the border. It hadn’t been very long, in fact, since such a raid had taken place in Tombstone and Slaughter had had to pursue the bandits into Mexico.

  Most of the Chiricahua and Mescalero Apaches had surrendered in their long campaign against the army and were now on reservations, but from time to time some of them decided to go on the warpath and raise some more hell.

  All in all, he kept pretty busy, even though he had the able assistance of several deputies including his brother-in-law Stonewall, a reformed—at least for the moment—bad man named Burt Alvord, and the latest addition to the group of officers, former saloon swamper Mose Tadrack, who had given up booze and become a steady, capable deputy.

  Slaughter looked at the angle of the sun again and knew that he ought to be getting to the office. He tightened his arm around Viola for a moment and said, “You want to get some breakfast before you start back to the ranch, don’t you?”

  “That sounds wonderful,” she replied. “It’s too far to go on an empty stomach.”

  “I suppose we should get dressed and head down to the dining room, then.”

  “I suppose.”

  Neither of them got in any hurry to do so, however.

  * * *

  Eventually, they walked into the hotel dining room and sat down to breakfast. The place was still fairly busy even though the morning was nearly half over.

  Hannah, the buxom blond waitress, came across the room to the couple’s table and smiled at them. “Good morning, Sheriff and Mrs. Slaughter. I’ll get some coffee right out for you. There are still plenty of flapjacks and bacon in the kitchen. Or would you rather have biscuits and gravy with the bacon?”

  “Flapjacks will be fine,” Slaughter said.

  “With some molasses,” Viola added, smiling. She had a sweet tooth on occasion.

  “Yeah, of course.” Hannah started to turn away, then paused and said, “That man Upton was in here a little while ago looking for you, Sheriff.”

  Slaughter frowned in surprise. “Morris Upton? I thought snakes didn’t crawl out from under their rocks until later in the day.”

  “John, that’s no way to talk,” Viola scolded him. “Mr. Upton is a citizen like everyone else in Tombstone.”

  “Well, maybe,” Slaughter said grudgingly. “But saloon-keepers are usually sound asleep at this time of day.”

  Hannah said, “I told him you and Mrs. Slaughter hadn’t come down yet. He said he guessed he’d stop by your office later.”

  “Wonderful,” Slaughter said, still frowning. “That’s something to look forward to.”

  Viola said, “Why don’t you just forget about Morris Upton for now and enjoy your breakfast with me?” The look on her face told him he would if he knew what was good for him.

  No mistake about that, Slaughter knew. She was good for him. Very, very good. “I suppose I can do that.”

  He sometimes thought that if he hadn’t been lucky enough to marry Viola, he would have wound up shot or on the wrong end of a hangman’s rope. He’d had several of his own brushes with the law, back in his younger, wilder days. He had even been accused of being a rustler, but as he saw it, that matter was open to interpretation.

  Of course, he had put all that far behind him. A good part of the credit for that was due to Viola.

  The food in the hotel dining room was consistently good, and today was no exception. Slaughter enjoyed the meal, and Viola’s company made it that much better.

  When they were finished, she headed back upstairs to their room to finish her packing, and Slaughter left the hotel to walk to the livery stable.

  Some of the townspeople gave him respectful nods as he passed them. It wasn’t just the badge of office they respected. Texas John Slaughter was known far and wide in Arizona Territory as a bad man to have for an enemy.

  He wasn’t that impressive physically, although his compactly built body was muscular and packed plenty of strength and stamina. In that respect, he was a little like a stubby-legged cow pony that could work all day. His eyes had a compelling intensity to them as they looked out from under slightly bushy brows. The neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper goatee testified that he wasn’t a young man anymore, but he possessed a vitality that belied his years.

  He was always well-dressed. He wore a dark suit with a wide-brimmed, pearl-gray Stetson on his graying dark hair. A pearl-handled Colt Single Action Army revolver was holstered on his right hip, handy if he needed it.

  Viola’s buggy was parked in front of the livery stable with a pair of fine black horses already hitched to it. She would have been just as happy to put on a pair of trousers, fork a saddle, and ride back to the ranch, but Slaughter had been able to persuade her to use the buggy for her
trips to town. A tomboy raised in a ranching family, she had a cowboy’s mentality. If something couldn’t be done from the back of a horse, most of the time, she didn’t consider it really worth doing.

  One of the ranch hands, Juan Zavala, waited next to the buggy. Two others, Hal Carter and Lucas Brenner, stood nearby with their saddled horses. The three men had accompanied Viola to Tombstone and would see her safely back to the ranch.

  More than once, Viola had argued that she didn’t need such an escort, that sending men with her took them away from more important work they could be doing at the ranch.

  There were enough outlaws and renegades still raising hell in this corner of the territory that Slaughter insisted upon the precaution, however. When it came to Viola, he picked his battles carefully, but he stood his ground when he had to.

  Zavala grinned at him. “The Señora Slaughter, she will be ready to go soon?”

  “I expect so,” Slaughter replied with a nod. “She’s packing right now.”

  “We’ve asked around some, boss,” Hal Carter said. “No reports of trouble between here and the ranch.”

  Lucas Brenner smiled and added, “It’s plumb peaceful around here.”

  Slaughter winced. “I wish people would stop saying that. Every time somebody does, all hell breaks loose.”

  “Aw, you ain’t gettin’ superstitious, are you, boss?” Brenner asked with a grin.

  Zavala looked serious. “You should not make fun of superstition, amigo. There are many things in this world that are beyond our understanding.”

  Brenner slapped the butt of the Winchester sticking up from the saddle boot strapped to his horse. “Maybe so, but I reckon there’s nothing better to clear things up than a few .44-40 slugs.”

  “Just keep your eyes open until you get back to the ranch,” Slaughter advised the three cowboys. “I’m not expecting any trouble, but you never know.”

  A few minutes later, Viola emerged from the hotel carrying her own bags. Slaughter would have gone to help her, but Zavala and Carter beat him to it. Everybody on the ranch in the San Bernardino Valley, from the youngest children of some of the married hands to the crusty old cook, adored Viola.

  That was as it should be, thought Slaughter. She had never lost the common touch. In the olden days, she would have been a hell of a queen.

  She was almost as tall as Slaughter, so she didn’t have to stretch up on her toes very far to give him a good-bye kiss. “I didn’t see Stonewall this morning,” she said after she climbed into the buggy.

  “He was on duty last night,” Slaughter explained. “Probably still asleep.”

  “I’m sorry I missed him. You’ll tell him good-bye for me when you see him again, won’t you?”

  “Sure.” Slaughter took his wife’s hand and gave it a final squeeze. “Be careful now. I’ll see you next time.” That time couldn’t come too soon to suit him, he thought as he watched the buggy roll away.

  With Viola gone, he turned his steps toward the courthouse where the sheriff’s office was located. He found his chief deputy Burt Alvord sitting at the desk in the front room, riffling through a stack of papers with a look of interest on his face.

  “Bunch of new reward dodgers came in this morning’s mail, Sheriff,” Burt announced.

  Given Burt’s past, he might be checking to see if he was on any of those wanted posters, thought Slaughter.

  Burt was a stocky, round-faced young man, almost completely bald despite the fact that he was only twenty years old. For the time being at least, he packed a badge and was on the side of the law.

  Slaughter worried Burt was one of those young hellions who might stray back over the line, but hoped it would never happen. He would hate to have to arrest Burt.

  He would hate it even more if he had to hang him . . . but he would do whatever the law required.

  “See any familiar faces on those wanted posters?” Slaughter asked dryly as he hung up his hat.

  “No, sir.” Burt didn’t seem to catch Slaughter’s meaning. “But I’ll study ’em in case any happen to ride in.”

  “You do that,” Slaughter said with a nod. He knew his chief deputy kept a pretty close eye on strangers who drifted in and out of Tombstone.

  Taking a cigar from his vest pocket, Slaughter clamped it between his teeth as he headed to his private office. He left the cigar unlit and turned to ask Burt through the open door, “Stonewall have anything to report from last night when you relieved him this morning?”

  “Nope. He said everything was quiet all night. In fact, it was plumb—”

  “Don’t say it,” Slaughter warned as he shook a finger at Burt. “No point in tempting fate.”

  Burt grinned and said with a chuckle, “I reckon you’re right about that, Sheriff.”

  Slaughter sat down at his desk and picked up a sheet of paper covered with figures scrawled in pencil. He’d been working on a budget for the county commissioners. His eyebrows drew down in a frown as he studied the numbers on the paper.

  When some of the leading citizens of the county had talked him into running for sheriff, they hadn’t said anything about how much paperwork would be involved. Slaughter had figured he would be out in the open air most of the time, hunting down outlaws and renegade Apaches. Instead, he spent altogether too many hours sitting in an office behind a blasted desk, trying to make sense of all the papers that flowed across it.

  Through the open door, he heard someone come into the outer office. A familiar voice asked, “Is the sheriff here?”

  “Just came in.” Burt didn’t sound friendly. “Hold on there. You can’t just barge in—”

  “It’s all right, Burt,” Slaughter called as he came to his feet. He wasn’t looking forward to this conversation, whatever it was about, but he supposed there was no point in postponing it. “Let Mr. Upton come on in.”

  Chapter 3

  Morris Upton was a tall, lean man with a narrow face that reminded Slaughter of a wolf. His suit, his hat, and his hair were all iron-gray. When the man smiled, his eyes remained cold and stony, like chips of agate.

  He was a predator through and through.

  Slaughter forced himself to be polite. “Come on in and have a seat, Upton.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff,” the Easterner said as he took off his hat. He sat down in the leather chair in front of the desk and set the hat on his knee.

  Slaughter resumed his seat and cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were aware of my plans. Have you heard about the big game?”

  “What big game?” Slaughter asked with a frown and a slight shake of his head.

  “Well, I suppose I should say big games, because there’ll be a number of them. The Top-Notch is sponsoring a poker tournament. Players will be coming in from all over the country.”

  “And you didn’t think to talk to me about this first?” Slaughter didn’t bother trying to conceal the irritation he felt at the news Upton had just given him.

  “Sorry, Sheriff, I didn’t know I was supposed to clear all my plans with you,” Upton said smoothly. “Gambling is still legal in Tombstone, isn’t it?” He knew good and well that it was.

  The man was just trying to get under his skin, thought Slaughter. He’d be playing right into Upton’s hands if he got mad.

  “Of course.” Slaughter managed to keep his voice cool and level. “Tell me more about this poker tournament.”

  It was Upton’s turn to look a little annoyed, probably because he hadn’t been successful at getting Slaughter’s goat. “All the best poker players west of the Mississippi will be here. The buy-in is two thousand dollars, and there won’t be any limits on the stakes. By the time we get down to the final two players, I suspect there might be as much as a quarter of a million dollars on the table. Maybe more.”

  It was all Slaughter could do not to let out an impressed whistle. He was a rich man himself, there was no denying that, but Upton was talking about a lot of money, even to a whee
ler-dealer like Texas John Slaughter.

  “I’m glad you saw fit to tell me about this before it got started, anyway. That much dinero might attract trouble.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I figured you needed to know. I plan to take precautions myself, of course. I’m going to hire armed guards. But I’d like to be able to call on you and your deputies for assistance if necessary. Not only that, but the tournament will draw more people to town than usual. You’re liable to have your hands full keeping the peace while it’s going on.”

  The same thought had crossed Slaughter’s mind. “We’ll keep the peace, don’t worry about that. But don’t forget, Upton, we work for Cochise County, not for you. If you think you can use my deputies as unpaid bouncers—”

  Upton held up a well-manicured hand to stop him. “That’s not what I meant, Sheriff. I just wanted you to be aware of the added potential for trouble. My men and I will do our best to see that nothing happens, of course.”

  “All right,” Slaughter said with a grudging nod. “I reckon we understand each other. When does this big tournament of yours start?”

  “As soon as everyone who responded to my invitation is here. They should start arriving any time now. I figure we’ll be ready to get started in two or three days.”

  Slaughter nodded again. “What do you get out of this, Upton?”

  The saloon owner smiled. “Well, a percentage goes to the house, of course. In addition, I expect to sell a lot more liquor while the games are going on. It’s not just the players. People will come from all over just to watch, you know. When they get tired of watching, they’ll want a drink and maybe a woman.”

  “Both of which you’ll be glad to provide for a price.”

  “That’s why I like dealing with you, Sheriff. You’re a businessman, too. You understand how these things work.”

  Slaughter didn’t care for the subtle comparison Upton had just drawn between the two of them. He wanted the saloonkeeper out of there. “I appreciate you letting me know about it. If there’s anything else you need to tell me . . .”