Wyoming Slaughter Read online

  “Well, crappola,” Cannon said. He dipped the nib into the inkpot and began his task in block letters.

  “How do you make a small A?” he asked.

  “Just make it smaller than a tall A,” I said. “Ain’t any need for a college education here.”

  Cannon sweated and licked and blotted, and then shoved the log to me. It sure was a mess. But it did say, in crude print, that Cannon would leave his guns there and get the rest hung there real quick. He signed it with an X.

  “That’ll do, Cannon. This here’s a quiet town, and you keep it that way.”

  Goose Cannon nodded, hung his matched revolvers on a peg, and fled. I thought the man was as slippery as a greased pig. Now I’d see if Cannon intended to keep the rest of his agreement and bring in the rest of those sidearms. It sure would be entertaining—if it happened.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Goose Cannon didn’t return. He didn’t bring his men in. No one showed up with a wheelbarrow full of gun belts and revolvers and rifles. I waited around, growing more and more morose. Rusty, damn him, was getting smirky over in his corner. The winter sun began to plummet, and still Cannon stayed away.

  “You got took, Cotton.”

  “Looks like I did.”

  “You shoulda known better. Man like Cannon, you can’t trust him as far as the outhouse.”

  “I did what I thought was best.”

  “Yeah, you trust people too much. You figure some skunk like that’s really okay inside, and he’ll not lie to you. Sometimes I wonder about you, Cotton.”

  “You picking on me?”

  “Yep. You got hardwood between the ears sometimes.”

  “My ma used to say I made up for it.”

  “Well, you’ve got a gun ordinance and twenty armed men out there. And getting ’em in and their guns hung up, man, you’ve got a problem, Cotton. Too bad you didn’t just lock the man up and hide the key.”

  “Yeah, too bad,” I said. I wished Rusty would shut the hell up.

  “We’re peace officers,” Rusty said, and that somehow tickled him, and he started wheezing his pleasure at the thought.

  “If you don’t like it, you go out and round up those dudes and bring them in—all twenty.”

  “You’re the sheriff; me, I just mop out the jail. You’re the one that’s got the balls.”

  Rusty was enjoying himself.

  It didn’t seem so funny to me. “I’m supposed to be tougher and harder than the rest. I’m supposed to make those toughs think twice, or maybe shake in their boots. I don’t know why I’m supposed to; people just think that way. But this isn’t a dime novel. This is real life. I’m no different from anyone else, Rusty. I just try to work things out, keep the town peaceful, keep people from being shot. I don’t know how to be twice as tough as anyone else around here. If that’s what it takes, then I’ll give the job to you.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “I trust a man to keep his word, and you tell me it was a mistake and I’m dumb.”

  Rusty turned silent.

  “And if I threw Goose Cannon in the lockup, and his men started a war to get him out, you’d still be telling me I was dumb.”

  Rusty clamped his lips shut, like he had vowed to keep them sewn up tight.

  “And if I lose a fight now and then, you’ll tell me I’m not fit, and you’ll get a new sheriff,” I said.

  Rusty industriously picked his nose.

  I thought I’d go patrol. I would rather face the bitter weather than Rusty’s cheery hostility. I wrapped a scarf around my neck, slid into a greatcoat, grabbed a sawed-off shotgun, and plunged into the cruel air. I headed into Wyoming Street, aware that the weather had chased sensible inside. If this evening was like any other this cold, I’d likely end up persuading the drunks to get out of the gutter before they froze to death. Drunks and cold weather seemed to go hand in hand. Usually, I corralled them all before their veins froze, but once I had failed to see a drunk lying in an alley. He didn’t make it. He was so stiff the funeral parlor couldn’t get him into a casket without a week of thawing. Maybe the cold weather was good. If it lasted through New Year’s, there’d hardly be anyone braving it. Icy air would be more of a peacemaker than the Peacemaker holstered at my side.

  There sure wasn’t anyone wandering around. But then at Saloon Row I did see something a little odd. There was a pack train standing there. Five mules, all laden with stuff. Three of them carried wooden boxes, two to the mule, labeled DUPONT HERCULES. The other two mules carried other stuff, wrapped in canvas and tied down tight. I sure didn’t know what was going on, but someone would. The mules were coated with a rime of frost and had icicles dangling from their muzzles. They were connected nose to tail by stiff lines. I dipped into the shelter of a recessed saloon door and waited, feeling my toes and ears getting frostbit.

  The waiting paid off when two gents in buckskins showed up. Both had coon-tail hats and big cloth overcoats. They looked as frostbit as the mules, and they looked around, as if to see whether anyone was out in the twilight.

  “You fellers need anything?” I asked.

  They eyed me, eyed my sawed-off shotgun, and got the general idea I was a lawman even if the badge was buried somewhere under layers of wool.

  “Nah, we’re just casing them saloons.”

  “You mind telling me what’s up?”

  “You the sheriff?”

  “Yes, Cotton Pickens.”

  “Well, that’s fine. We’re on our way to do a little chore, and we stopped here to have a look at your town.”

  “What little chore?”

  These fellers were so frosted up and hatted down I could hardly tell one from the other, but they sure interested me.

  “Oh, just a little task is all. Nothing for you to worry about, Sheriff. We’ll just leave town and keep on agoin’. Now me and my friend, we’re drinking men, so we stopped for a snort. We’re about ready to vamoose.”

  “You got names?”

  “Oh, sure, I’m Ezra Panhandle, and this here’s Scuffy Scruggs.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “We’re powdermen.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We work in the mines. We drill into the face, load a charge into each hole, usually a stick of Du Pont with a cap, and run some Bickford fuse out of there. We get them all timed to go off at the same moment, and when it blows, the muckers have more ore to shovel.”

  “What are you doing in Doubtful?”

  “Oh, just for a little while, Sheriff. We’re here peaceable.”

  “Powdermen? That’s what you’ve got on the mules?”

  “Oh, we always carry. If we didn’t carry, we’d feel as naked as a shootist without his gun.”

  “Could that stuff go off?”

  “Sure could. If the stuff on them mules were to blow, there’d be no more Doubtful.”

  “And you carry it around town? You think maybe you’d better get out of here?”

  “Aw, it’s tough to set it off. It’s not like nitro. This stuff is safe. Maybe a stray bullet might set it off, but nothing else, especially in this cold. It’s so cold here that this stuff is half dead.”

  “A stray bullet. Along Saloon Row. Fellers, you bring that mule train over to Courthouse Square, and you and me are gonna have a little talk. You’d better tell me why you’re here, who brought you here, and what you’re planning to do.”

  “Naw, we’re on our way,” said Scruggs.

  “I think you’d better walk in front of me and head for Courthouse Square. I think maybe we’ll put all that explosive in a safe place.”

  “It’s safe enough. And you don’t have a powder magazine in Doubtful,” Panhandle said.

  “Tell you what. We’ll get out of town right away. You can watch us go,” Scruggs said.

  “No, I think maybe we’ll have a little fireside talk.”

  They shrugged, collected a lead line, and tugged the mules into the wind. The mules didn’t like it, humped their backs, and
made the DuPont cases dance on their backbones. But after a while, we all arrived at the square, and Scruggs tied up the mule outfit.

  The powdermen headed inside, with me following, waving my sawed-off shotgun a little to hurry things along.

  They stomped snow off and pulled hats from heads. It was the first real look that I got of the pair. Scruggs was short and thick; Panhandle skinny and bearded, with itchy fingers that kept flexing.

  “Rusty, this here is Scuffy Scruggs and Ezra Panhandle. They’re powdermen from the mines. They’ve got a mess of powder tied outside.”

  “What do you mean, powder?” Rusty asked.

  “Six crates of DuPont Hercules dynamite, and all the fixings.”

  “Jaysas, I’m outa here.”

  “Couldn’t be safer,” Scruggs said. “It’s just nitro and clay, formed into sticks. That’s what dynamite is. You’d have trouble blowing up a house fly with it.”

  “They won’t tell me why they’re here,” I said.

  That stopped Rusty in his tracks. “They won’t say?”

  “Oh, it’s not your business, long as we don’t violate the law,” Panhandle said.

  “I think it’s our business,” I said. I waved them toward some wooden chairs. “Why were you on Saloon Row with that stuff?”

  “We’re just a couple of wayfarers, lost in the cold,” Panhandle said.

  “You’re a smartass. What were you there for?”

  “To take a leak. There’s an outhouse behind every saloon.”

  “Where were you headed? What’s the powder for?”

  “You sure are a nosy one, Sheriff.”

  That sort of fencing went on for several more minutes. It was plain that the powdermen weren’t going to talk, and plain that I had no reason to hold them, and plain that they weren’t going anywhere else. They’d come to Doubtful with the powder.

  “All right, I’m escorting you out of town. We’re going to move that powder far from here. Then you’re free to return. Turk’s Livery can care for the mules if you want.”

  “We ain’t separating ourselves from our powder. What right have you?” Scruggs said.

  “Public safety. That’s right enough. You coming or do we do it ourselves?”

  That galvanized them. In short order, they headed into the blowing cold, with me right at their side. They chose a creek bank out a way and unloaded the dynamite in an obscure area concealed by shrubbery.

  “If this gets stole, I’m suing you,” Scruggs said.

  “That’s better than blowing up Doubtful,” I replied.

  I steered them toward Turk’s Livery Barn and let them go with a warning. “I don’t want to see you around here tomorrow. Got that?”

  “We’re free men; we’ll go where we want,” Scruggs retorted.

  I hastened back to the office, fearing that I’d frostbit my ears. The warmth was never so welcome. I hung up my greatcoat and warmed my hands in front of the cast-iron stove.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked Rusty.

  “If they were casing Saloon Row, maybe they were hired to blow up Saloon Row.”

  “They sort of showed up from behind the buildings when I was looking for them.”

  “Outhouses, like they say.”

  “Maybe. But if you was thinking of blowing up a building with that stuff, I guess you’d not want to do it on Wyoming Street, in front of everyone.”

  “Cotton, why is it that once in a while you make sense?”

  “Rusty, my friend, your shift is about to get harder. We’re going out.”

  “On a night like this?”

  “Yep, colder than a frosted pump handle. You and me, we’re heading for Saloon Row, and we’re going to look for those powdermen and keep an eye on them. We’re going to find them, and sort of ignore them, but keeping a sharp eye. I want to know why they’re in town and what they’re up to, and that means spoiling all the fun in a mess of saloons.”

  “There ain’t a barkeep in Doubtful likes us hanging around his place,” Rusty said.

  “You take the north side and I’ll take the south side.”

  “You mean I got to go out in this?”

  “Yep.”

  “But I didn’t put on my long johns.”

  “Now you’re stuck.”

  “Are you going to carry?”

  “No, but I’ll keep my billy club under my coat.”

  “I’ll freeze my toes,” Rusty said.

  “Serves you right.”

  With that, we bundled up and braved the merciless cold. I checked shop windows along the way, but Doubtful was hunkered down, waiting for spring, and so were the burglars, holdup men, purse snatchers, vagrants, and ladies of the night.

  I had chosen the south side so I could visit with Sammy Upward in the Last Chance, one of the few saloon men who was semifriendly with me. And that’s where I headed first. Sammy usually knew a few things.

  The Last Chance was plenty warm and well populated with the usual ranch crowd. Sammy knew how to do business on a winter’s night: generous shots and plenty of heat from the glowing stove.

  I waited at the far end of the bar until Sammy slipped over to me.

  “You know anything about two powdermen in town?”

  “I heard about ’em. One’s skinny, the other’s short and thick?”

  “Those are the two. They’ve got enough powder to level Doubtful.”

  “That’s what I’m hearing. But the word is they’re going to blow up Saloon Row at midnight, New Year’s Eve.”

  “You know something, Sammy? I think you’re right.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  That was all Sammy knew. If he knew any more, he’d tell me. He was the one man on Saloon Row who had some sense of keeping the place peaceful. No bar man can always choose his customers, but Sammy knew how to deal with most of them. He kept a few persuaders of his own behind the bar, ready to use. Mostly, the Last Chance was a peaceful place.

  I had set myself a task, so I braved the subzero air and ventured down the street, entering each saloon for a look around. Those two powdermen would be easy to spot. There weren’t many patrons in the saloons that evening. Most cowboys would rather nurse a big dry than nurse frost-nipped fingers and noses and ears riding into Doubtful. And most cowboys cared enough about their horses to keep from frosting their lungs by making them work on a night like this one. So the saloons were quiet, the bartenders yawning, the card sharps dozing at their poker tables, and the tinhorns staring into space beside their silent faro tables.

  If there were powdermen around, they’d sure show up in a small crowd like this. I tried McGivers Saloon, where the barkeep, Buff Thorn, was no friend, but Buff just growled. There was only one man in there, a town drunk. I headed for Mrs. Gladstone’s Sampling Room, one of the few saloons operated by a woman, but she had gone to bed and left the place in the hands of Rat Ryan, her swamper. Rat was a drunk who took his pay in booze, slept in the storeroom, and usually stank. But Rat was snoozing at the bar, a bottle in front of him, and two customers were huddled at the stove, worn out by talking when they had nothing to say, waiting out the cold until they could wash their winter long johns in the spring.

  No powdermen there, either. The rest of the joints were the same.

  I crossed the back alley and entered Sally’s cathouse, but the girls were not in sight, except for a near-naked one behind the bar, shivering in the chill.

  “You seen any strangers, tall and skinny, short and wide, come through?”

  “All I look at is their pants,” she said. “We haven’t dished a screw all night. You want to try? A quickie, on the billiard table.”

  “I always want to try,” I said, and backed out. “I’m a little slow, they say.”

  The other joints were the same. I doubted that the cathouses had done two dollars of trade that cold night. And no one had seen the powdermen.

  I let the arctic air blow me back to the sheriff office and found that Rusty had beat me back.

  “Nothing,
” Rusty said.

  “Any rumors?”

  “Yeah, them powdermen aren’t friendly.”

  “Sammy says they’re maybe gonna blow up Saloon Row.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “These are crazy times. I guess we got to follow the money. If someone’s paying them for that, we ought to find out who.”

  “Seems to me we ought to be keeping it from happening,” Rusty said dryly.

  “Well, it’s the same thing,” I said, feeling a little sore.

  “Powdermen don’t show up by accident,” Rusty said. “Someone got them here.”

  “Maybe they left town,” I said. I was getting grouchier by the minute. “You go on over to Turk’s and see if they’re bedded down in the loft.”

  “Me? In weather like this?”

  “You.”

  “But I’m still thawing out.”

  “You.”

  “I’ll go if you go.”

  “Well, they’re there. They wouldn’t head out with them mules on a night like this.”

  “They haven’t got their pay yet,” Rusty said. “They’ve got to blow things up to get paid.”

  “Tomorrow, you go see if they’re in Turk’s hayloft.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll pull the covers up and stay in bed.”

  Rusty was sure acting rebellious. I thought of firing him, then decided against it. “I’ll fire you tomorrow, maybe,” I said.

  “That would be heaven,” Rusty replied.

  “Who do you think hired the powdermen?”

  “The women.”

  “Like Mrs. Grosbeak?”

  “She’d do anything to empty every bottle in town.”

  “They never should have let women vote in this state,” I said. “It’s ruined Wyoming.”

  “Too late now.”

  “My ma used to say that if women got the vote, she’d move to Texas. They’ll never let women loose down there. Texas is not a good state for women and never will be.”

  I clambered back into my greatcoat, pulled a hat down, and headed out into the blistering cold. I had two powdermen loose in Doubtful, and I should never have let them go. If I found them, they’d answer some questions and probably enjoy my hospitality for the night. The more I thought about the powdermen, the more it worried me. They could make the whole town disappear. I thought maybe I should go out to that cache of dynamite and try to blow it off. It’d sure light up the night.