The Devil's Boneyard Page 3

  “There’s another’n up ahead,” Pete said. “That sounds like the place for you, Ormond, the Lost Coyote.”

  “We’ll take care of the horses before we even think about the saloons,” Malcolm reminded them. “And if you two think we rode all the way back here to spend our money in a saloon, then I’ll be better off huntin’ Bragg down by myself.”

  “Don’t get your underdrawers all in a tangle, brother,” Ormond reacted. “Me and Pete know what we’re here for.” He looked over at Pete. “We ain’t gonna get drunk. Right, Pete?”

  “Right,” Pete replied. “We’ll take care of Bragg, then we’ll go somewhere else and get drunk.” He pushed on ahead of them and headed for the stable.

  Henry Barnes watched the three riders from the hayloft until they headed toward his barn before he went down the ladder to the barn floor. As they pulled up to the door, he walked out to meet them. “Howdy, fellers, you lookin’ to board them horses?”

  “That’s a fact,” Malcolm answered. “They’re plum wore out, and we’ve got a long way to go yet. So, we need to rest ’em up good, water and feed ’em.”

  “How long you thinkin’ about leavin’ ’em here?”

  “Like I just said,” Malcolm replied, “we’re in a hurry to get somewhere, so we might leave ’em all night, but if they get rested up enough, we might not stay tonight.”

  That seemed a little odd to Henry, so he said as much. “I’m always glad to charge you for takin’ care of your horses. But no longer’n you boys are talkin’ about stayin’ in town, looks like you’d ride about half a mile down the creek where there’s good grass and let ’em graze there while they’re restin’. That way, it wouldn’t cost you nothin’.”

  Malcolm forced a patient smile. “Well, you see, it’s like this. We’ve been ridin’ for days, so we’re ready to have ourselves a good meal and a couple of drinks. We’ve got some things on them packhorses that we don’t wanna lose. So it’s worth it to us to pay you to watch our packs and our horses, so we don’t have to. We’ve got the money to pay for havin’ ’em right handy here, instead of half a mile down the creek and one of us havin’ to watch ’em.”

  “Oh,” Henry replied. “Well, I reckon that does make sense. I’ll take care of ’em.”

  “Good,” Malcolm said. “We’ll help you unsaddle ’em, then we’re gonna go find somethin’ to eat. Where’s a good place to buy some dinner?”

  “Ordinarily, I’d say the Lost Coyote, right next door. But today’s Sunday, and Annie don’t cook dinner on Sundays. But you can always get a good meal at the hotel in the dinin’ room.”

  “That sounds more to my likin’,” Pete said.

  Henry looked at his pocket watch. “They oughta be open for dinner now. It’s right at noon.”

  “What about that other saloon between the Lost Coyote and the hotel?” Malcolm asked. “Have they got a cook on Sunday?” He was set on having a couple of drinks before he ate. And he was also considering the fact that the Golden Rail was closer to the jail.

  “Yeah, they’ve got a cook. The food ain’t as good as the hotel’s, but you can get somethin’ to eat there.”

  “We’ll take a look,” Malcolm decided. “I want a drink of likker, whether we eat there or not.” They thanked Henry and started walking back toward the Golden Rail down the street.

  * * *

  “It must be Sunday,” Lacy James exclaimed. “Ben Savage is here for the noon meal.”

  “Howdy, Lacy,” Ben greeted her patiently, long accustomed to her usual teasing. “You know it would hurt Annie’s feelin’s if I ate dinner here every day. Besides, I don’t have to pay for it at the Coyote.” He started to unbuckle his gun belt as usual, but decided to leave it on, drew his six-gun, and placed it on the table provided for that purpose.

  Lacy laughed. “I guess that is a strong point to consider, but you’re not remembering the classy company you get here at the River House Hotel.”

  “Well, now, that is a fact I’d forgotten about. Where is Cindy, anyway?” He pretended to look around the room for Lacy’s young waitress.

  Lacy threw her head back and chuckled. “Cindy,” she called out then and a few seconds later, the young lady stuck her head out the kitchen door. “You’ve got a customer out here.”

  “Afternoon, Ben,” she greeted him. “Coffee?” She asked, knowing it unnecessary. He always wanted coffee. He confirmed it with a nod. “Be right back,” she said and popped back into the kitchen.

  He indulged in a couple of minutes more small talk with Lacy until Cindy reappeared, carrying a cup of coffee for him. “Today you’ve got two choices for your Sunday dinner,” she said, “roast beef or fried ham.”

  “There you go,” Lacy commented, still teasing. “At the River House Dining Room, you get two choices.”

  Ben grinned at her. “You get two choices at the Coyote,” he said. “Eat what Annie cooks, or don’t eat what Annie cooks.” It was good for a hearty chortle out of Lacy before she left him to seat another customer. He told Cindy he’d take the roast beef. “I had ham for breakfast.” She left to get his food and he turned his attention to the cup of hot coffee. It was only for a few moments, however, before he became aware of the conversation between Lacy and the customer at the door. A stranger, he thought, and Lacy’s having to explain the “no guns” rule in the dining room. He would have been more interested had he been able to understand what they were saying.

  “No, ma’am,” Pete Russell said, “I think I’ll just keep my gun on. I feel right nekkid without it. Who’s the big feller settin’ in the back, there? Is that the sheriff?” Pete had never gotten even a glimpse of the man who shot William Hazzard.

  “No,” Lacy answered. “That’s Ben Savage. He owns the Lost Coyote. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to leave that gun on the table, if you want us to serve you,” she insisted.

  “Lady, I ain’t takin’ my gun off. I don’t give a damn about your rules.” He was thinking that Malcolm and Ormond would be there before he finished eating and he knew they would have a good laugh at his expense, if he let this woman take his gun. “I got two friends comin’ behind me and they ain’t gonna take their guns off, neither, so that’s that.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t serve you and your friends, if you’re gonna insist on wearing firearms in this dining room. Look around you, no one else is wearing a firearm, are they?”

  The tone of the discussion at the door became a little more tense and louder, to the point where it attracted Ben’s attention. He heard Pete’s next question for Lacy. “What are you gonna do about it, if I don’t take my gun off, throw me out?”

  Ever the sassy one, even with someone of obvious self-assurance, Lacy answered. “Well, we’ll seat you outside the door where you won’t likely shoot any of our sensible customers. We won’t serve you any food or coffee. Then when it’s time to close, we’ll lock the door and clean up the dining room and say goodnight to you when we all go home.”

  “You got a right sassy mouth on you, ain’t you, bitch?” Pete growled.

  “Yes, I guess I have,” she responded. “You’re not the first to let me know that. Right now, this sassy mouth is telling you we refuse to serve you. So, you and your guns can go on down to the Golden Rail with the rest of your crowd. They sell food. It ain’t as good as ours, but they’ll let you wear your guns while you’re eating it.”

  Knowing he had to help her, Ben laid his napkin beside his plate and got up. He walked unhurriedly toward the door. About to come back at Lacy, Pete paused when he saw Ben approaching. He dropped his hand to rest on the handle of his .44 and turned to face Ben. “What the hell do you want?” Pete demanded.

  “Couldn’t help overhearin’ the conversation between you and the lady,” Ben said. “It’s plain to see you’re new in town, so I thought I could give you some help. I’ll walk outside with you and show you the place where you can eat with your gun and nobody will bother you.”

  “If I wanted to hear anything outta you, I’
da told you, so you’d best get your ass back to that table before I put another airhole in your head.” He closed his hand around the handle of his .44.

  “I figured you were too shy to ask for help in findin’ your kind of eatin’ place,” Ben said as he clamped down on Pete’s hand, trapping it on the holstered gun. With his other hand, he grabbed the back of Pete’s coat and started walking him toward the door. Quick to assist, Lacy opened the door and held it for him. With her free hand, she picked his six-gun off the table beside the door and slipped it into his empty holster as he passed by her. Ben nodded to her in response. Overpowered by the bigger man, Pete had no choice but to stumble ahead of him until they were outside the building and he was released. Flustered and mad as hell, he spun around to find himself staring at the Colt six-gun in Ben’s hand, leveled at his belly. With his gun not halfway out of his holster at that point, he wisely released it to let it drop back in.

  “This ain’t none of your business,” was all Pete could think of to say at that moment.

  With no desire to see this confrontation develop into anything further than it already had, Ben made an attempt to defuse it. “I know how you feel. I objected to leavin’ my gun on the table when I first started eatin’ here, but I got used to it. A lot of the local citizens eat here with their families, so they want ’em to feel safe.” He pointed to the Golden Rail up the street. “You’d be more satisfied at the Golden Rail.” He paused while Pete was making up his mind what to do. “I’m just tryin’ to lend a helpin’ hand to a stranger, that’s all.” Ben said.

  After a few more moments, Pete made an effort to save face. “This wasn’t none of your business to stick your nose in. But you’re lucky I’m in a good mood and I’d already decided I didn’t wanna eat in there, nohow. But I didn’t like her snotty attitude. I’ll let this business between you and me drop, and I’ll try that Golden Rail.”

  “It takes a big man to do that. I know the town of Buzzard’s Bluff appreciates it.” He stood there watching Pete as he turned and walked up the street. When he was satisfied the stranger was not going to turn around, he went back inside to find Lacy standing by the window. “He said you had a snotty attitude,” he japed and started to remove his pistol.

  “Keep it,” she said. “He might come back.” He raised his eyebrows in surprise as he dropped the weapon back in his holster. “Thanks, Ben,” she said.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Thought you was in a big hurry to eat,” Ormond Hazzard said when Pete walked back into the Golden Rail.

  “I was,” Pete replied, “but I ran into a little bit of trouble in that damn dinin’ room.”

  “What kinda trouble?” Malcolm asked at once, having already warned his brother and Pete not to do anything that might tip anybody off that they were gunning for the sheriff.

  “I know what you said,” Pete assured him at once. “It didn’t have nothin’ to do with the sheriff. I got into it with the woman that runs the dinin’ room and some big jasper that was eatin’ there.” He went on to explain the altercation with Ben Savage.

  Mickey Dupree, the bartender, called out to ask if Pete wanted a drink. When Pete said he did, Mickey brought it over to him, then remained to listen to Pete’s accounting of his confrontation with Lacy James. He chuckled when Pete told them what Lacy had said, then he commented. “She’s a sassy little bitch, all right. She won’t let nobody eat there till they park their guns on the table. I don’t know why you just don’t eat here. Peggy’s got some kinda stew cooked up. I tried it and it ain’t bad.” Getting back to Pete’s story then he asked, “You say some feller stepped in to argue with you? Who was it? Freeman Brown, the feller that owns the hotel?”

  “No,” Pete answered. “The woman said he owned the saloon up the street.” He didn’t go into the part of the argument where he was hustled out the door by the nape of his neck and faced a drawn .44 in the street.

  “Big feller?” Mickey asked, Pete nodded. “That was Ben Savage. He owns the Lost Coyote in partnership with a woman, Rachel Baskin. He was a Texas Ranger before he got that saloon and he’s been known to have a fast hand with a six-gun. Back when Estelle Dalton decided to sell the Golden Rail, she offered it to Savage and Rachel Baskin, but they decided they didn’t want it. So that’s how her manager, Wilson Bishop, wound up with it.”

  “It’s a good thing you decided to let it go and come on back here,” Malcolm said. “We sure as hell didn’t come to town lookin’ for trouble.” He gave him a stern look to remind him. “We’ve been talkin’ to Mickey, here, about Buzzard’s Bluff. He says it’s a right peaceful little town. I told him they must have a good sheriff.”

  “That’s a fact,” Mickey interrupted. “And we ain’t always been on good terms with him here at the Golden Rail, on account of we get some rough customers from time to time. But I have to say he’s tryin’ to do his job. He ain’t no friend of the Golden Rail, but he don’t hassle us any more’n he does the Lost Coyote.”

  “Give us some of that stew you’ve been braggin’ about,” Ormond said. He didn’t see any point in going to the hotel when there was food right there.

  “Me, too,” Malcolm said and looked at Pete only to get a shrug in reply. “Make it three.” He waited for Mickey to yell the order out for Peggy to hear in the kitchen before he continued his conversation with him. “I’d like to meet this sheriff of yours,” Malcolm started. “What’s his hole card?” When Mickey looked confused by the question, Malcolm asked, “What’s his thing? Fast draw? Strong and tough as nails, what?”

  Mickey shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s tough enough, I reckon. I ain’t ever seen him draw against anybody. He just works hard at the job. If I had to say, I’d bet against him, if he ever had to come up against Ben Savage.” He shrugged again. “But I don’t reckon that’ll ever happen. Him and Savage are friends.”

  When a couple of cowhands came in the saloon, causing Mickey to return to the bar, Ormond was inspired to comment. “After we settle with the sheriff, it’d be kind of interestin’ to see if this Ben Savage feller has all the starch in him that Mickey thinks he has, wouldn’t it?”

  “Might at that,” Malcolm responded. “Sounds like we’d own the whole town if we got rid of both of ’em, don’t it? Whaddaya think, Pete? You saw Ben Savage. Think you could take him in a fair fight?”

  Concerned that Malcolm might try to stage a fast-draw competition between him and Savage, Pete decided to be honest. “I don’t know. I couldn’t say.” He thought back at how quickly the big man had his gun on him when he turned around to face him. “Ormond’s faster’n me. He might take him.”

  His answer caused Malcolm to nod thoughtfully. “Well, we all know I’m a little rusty. Maybe we better just shoot the son of a gun in the back, if he causes us any trouble.”

  “That’s always the safest,” Ormond said with a chuckle. “First, we’ve gotta find the sheriff. Looks like we’re gonna have to go to the damn jailhouse to find him.” He looked toward the bar. “Hey, Mickey, where’s the sheriff? Don’t he ever take a walk around town?”

  “I’m damned if I know,” Mickey answered. “You usually see him around town, keepin’ an eye on things.” He turned to a scruffy-looking man, sitting alone at a table, eating a bowl of Peggy’s stew. “Hey, Stump, where’s the sheriff?”

  Stump Jones, who served as general handyman for the owner of the Golden Rail, Wilson Bishop, looked up from his bowl only long enough to answer, “Gone to church.”

  “Gone to church?” Ormond asked and looked at Malcolm and whispered, “He musta got a feelin’ somebody was comin’ after him.”

  “I forgot about that,” Mickey answered him. “There’s a new preacher in town and a new church. If you came into town on the south end, you passed right by it. Today’s the first service in the church. I expect there’s a lotta folks goin’ to hear the preachin’ today that ain’t ever goin’ back for seconds.” He chuckled in appreciation of his own wit.

  “Maybe we oughta go to the church,�
� Ormond joked. “Give the preacher somethin’ to preach about.”

  Hearing his comment, Mickey said, “You’re too late. I expect the service is about over by now.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Malcolm remarked. “I’ll tell you what, boys, it’s a fine Sunday mornin’. Why don’t we take this bottle out on the front porch and watch the town folks comin’ back from church?” When Ormond said he’d just as soon sit inside at the table, Malcolm gave him a sly look and commented softly, “Maybe we’ll see if somebody goes in the sheriff’s office.”

  “Oh,” Ormond replied, “that’s a good idea. Why don’t we do that?” He picked up the bottle and followed Malcolm out the door. There were four chairs on the short porch of the saloon. So they pulled three of them on one side of the front door, close enough to pass the bottle back and forth without anyone having to get up. It wasn’t long before some people came into town. They were only a few, since most of the merchants didn’t open their shops on Sunday. “Lookee yonder,” Ormond said. “There’s that little filly drivin’ the buggy.” There was a man on horseback keeping pace with the buggy and talking to the woman as they came up from the south end of the street. When they reached the jail, just short of the Golden Rail, the rider broke away from the buggy and reined his horse to a stop at the sheriff’s office.

  “Uh-oh,” Malcolm grunted and sat up straight in his chair, straining to get a good look at the man. “It’s him! It’s the sheriff!” he exclaimed when the man took out his keys and unlocked the office door. “That’s Mack Bragg, the devil that shot William down,” he growled, the knuckles of his fingers white as a result of the strain of his clenched fists. The urge to take a shot at him was overpowering as he unlocked the door, his back turned toward them.

  Sensing Malcolm’s tension, Ormond cautioned. “Too bad we ain’t got a rifle handy. It’s a little too far to be sure of with a pistol.”

  “Yeah, it’s too far,” Malcolm agreed and reminded himself that he wanted Bragg to know who killed him and why. “I want him to know.” He got up from his chair.