Authors: Loren D. Estleman
The Murdock's Law (5 page)
Closing saloons is a shotgun job. At the jail, I used the late lawman's key to unlock the chain securing the long guns, handed an American Arms 12-gauge to Yardlinger and divided a pair of cut-down 10-gauge Remingtons between Earl and the Major. Randy Cross seemed content with his cut-down 12. For myself I selected a Winchester .44 carbine, as no one had yet balanced a scattergun to my satisfaction. Finally I pocketed a handful of cartridges from one of several boxes in the drawer under the rack.
“Take what you need,” I said, fitting the padlock back on the chain. “If we're lucky we won't use what's in the chambers, but there's one thickheaded drunk in every saloon.”
Yardlinger filled the side pocket of his frock coat with shells for his 12-gauge. “I don't much like this plan. Why don't we just set up a barricade at the end of the street and disarm the hands as they come in?”
“I heard of a Ranger who tried that down in Amarillo,” I said. “They never did find enough of him to bury. A cowboy will kill to keep his gun, but not to drink.”
“I've seen men kill for less.”
“On the range. Not in a town full of witnesses, unless they've already been drinking.”
“I guess you know how much faith I put in that,” he said dryly.
“That's why the shotguns.”
Outside, the sun was draining into the horizon in a wallow of orange and purple. A stiff breeze stirred the dust in the street and laid its cold hand against our faces. On the boardwalk in front of the jail I gestured with the Winchester. “Earl and Randy, take the east side. Start at the other end and work your way back up here. We'll come the same way along the west walk. Don't be afraid to make noise if anyone gives you trouble. One more thing.”
The group had started to break up. Everyone looked at me.
“If anyone comes back with liquor on his breath I'll have him stuffed and stood up in the middle of town as a monument to the evils of drink.”
Cross and Earl left with a dual snort. I'd impressed the daylights out of them.
Our first stop was the Pick Handle, a shack with canvas tacked over the spaces where boards were missing and one opaque window a foot square. A coal-oil lantern swung from a nail in a rafter, oozing greasy light over a plank laid across two beer kegs that served as the bar. Two men were leaning on it and a short man with a barrel body and a matted
tangle of black beard was pouring red whiskey into a glass on the other side. He stopped when he saw our guns.
tangle of black beard was pouring red whiskey into a glass on the other side. He stopped when he saw our guns.
“Evening, Oren, Major,” he said cautiously. “What'll you have?”
I said, “Nothing tonight. These fellows paid for their drinks?” I jerked my head toward the pair watching us from the bar.
The bartender considered the question, then shook his head. His eyes wandered left and down to where a sawed-off shotgun lay across a packing crate.
I tossed a coin onto the plank. It bounced and would have rolled off the edge if he hadn't slapped a meaty hand down on top of it. “They're on me,” I announced. “Drain your glasses, gents. It's closing time.”
“What the hell!” The bartender grabbed for the shotgun. I cracked the barrel of the Winchester across the back of his wrist. Howling, he yanked it back.
“Don't,” snapped Yardlinger, covering the two customers, one of whom had grasped the handle of a revolver in his belt.
“It's just for tonight,” I told the bartender, who was busy testing his injured wrist for breaks. “You don't want to lose the use of that arm over a few dollars.” To Yardlinger, indicating the customers: “Either of these Terwilliger's?”
“No.”
I held out my hand to the one with the gun. At length he drew it gingerly and placed it in my palm. It was a prewar piece, much in need of cleaning. I
stuck it in my belt. “You're lucky you didn't get a chance to pull the trigger and blow your hand off. You can pick it up at the jail later. Get going, both of you.” They slunk out. I returned my attention to the man behind the bar. “Lock up.”
stuck it in my belt. “You're lucky you didn't get a chance to pull the trigger and blow your hand off. You can pick it up at the jail later. Get going, both of you.” They slunk out. I returned my attention to the man behind the bar. “Lock up.”
“How?” He was still rubbing the wrist. “Got no key. The place ain't been closed since it was built.”
“Got a hammer and nails and a board?”
He said he did. Yardlinger went with him into the back room and they came out a moment later, the bartender carrying a hammer and a small sack in one hand and a weathered plank four feet long under his other arm. As we accompanied him to the front door his eyes sought Major Brody's.
“Who is this guy?” He gestured at me with the board.
The old man shrugged a thin shoulder. “Anyhow, what's it matter? He's got a weapon and you ain't.”
Yardlinger leaned his shotgun beyond the bartender's reach outside and helped him nail the board across the entrance. “That won't keep nobody out,” predicted the bartender.
“It won't have to,” I said. “Tomorrow you can yank it down and throw it away.” We watched while he retreated down the street toward home, carrying his tools. Then we moved on.
We encountered little resistance at the Sunset and French Sam's, establishments similar to the Pick Handle and just about as deserted. The sight of the Major's ravaged face above the 10-gauge, his tobacco plug bulging one cheek, calmed a sodden range cook who had staggered out of his seat to challenge our authority at Sam's. In each location the occupants
were driven out and the front door locked from the outside. At the Glory we paused for a consultation before entering.
were driven out and the front door locked from the outside. At the Glory we paused for a consultation before entering.
It was a big building with leaded-glass windows and mineral-oil lamps inside spilling rich yellow light out onto the boardwalk, a far cry from the stark simplicity of the places we'd visited previously. Yardlinger came back from peering over the batwing doors, shaking his head.
“There are six Terwilliger men in there that I can see. And one of the customers we ran out of French Sam's, drinking at the bar. Maybe a dozen others scattered around the room. They'll be ready for us.”
“Is there a back way?” I asked.
“Side door off the alley.”
As quietly as possible I racked a fresh shell into the Winchester's chamber, ejecting the one that was in there, picked it up and poked it into the magazine. I did it partly out of nervous habit and partly because I never trust a cartridge that hasn't moved in a while. “Who goes in through the front?”
“The Major,” said Yardlinger, without hesitation. “No one takes him seriously.”
“Should we?” I looked at the old man.
He grinned, showing a black crescent where his teeth should have been. Either molars were all he had left or he gummed his chew. “I ain't used up yet.”
I nodded. “Start counting. Give us twenty to reach the side door. No one leaves till I'm finished talking, no one flashes iron. But try not to blow holes in too many of Breen's upstanding citizens.”
“Hell, that's no restriction. They ain't none.”
“Just don't forget this isn't Virginia and it isn't eighteen sixty-three,” I cautioned. “I'm just getting used to having you around and I wouldn't want to see you stretching a rope.”
I reminded him to count to twenty and struck off down the narrow alley with the other deputy. The sun was almost below the horizon, and except for a thin yellow L outlining the door we were surrounded by darkness. We hesitated before going in.
“Where are the cowhands?” My breath curled out in wisps of vapor.
“Two at the bar when I looked,” said Yardlinger. “Three more sharing a table west of the front door opposite. Last one playing poker next to the bar with three other customers, one of them the guy we chased out of Sam's. You want to watch the Terwilliger man playing cards. Name's Pardee. It was his brother the vigilantes almost lynched. He'll be smoking a cigar. Never leaves his mouth.”
“I'll take the bar side. You cover the three at the table. And watch out for everyone else. The man who gets the last shot is always the last one you suspect. Let's go.”
I pushed the door open noiselessly and we crossed through a dim storeroom stacked with kegs and barrels and reeking of old beer and new vomit, the one thing all saloons have in common, to an open door through which bar sounds were leaking. As we approached, the buzz of voices in the outer room died. Major Brody had entered.
All eyes were on him as we stepped inside. A frumpy figure in a stained coat and trousers that bagged at the knees, he was standing at the end of an
aisle that ran between the tables and a bar of glossy dark wood trimmed with brass. The huge twin barrels of his truncated Remington were trained on the room at large. His sagging hat brim masked his eyes and his tobacco cud raised a hard knot beneath his right ear.
aisle that ran between the tables and a bar of glossy dark wood trimmed with brass. The huge twin barrels of his truncated Remington were trained on the room at large. His sagging hat brim masked his eyes and his tobacco cud raised a hard knot beneath his right ear.
“Who the hell are you supposed to be, Major?” The bartender, heavy-muscled in a calico shirt and tight silk vest, kept his hands hidden behind the bar. He had blunt features like an Indian and an upper lip that curled back and flattened under his nose when he smiled, exposing long, slightly discolored teeth. I figured him for an opium smoker and wondered if there were any Chinese in town.
“Who don't matter,” explained Brody in a dead voice. “It's what you'll be if you don't get them hands in plain sight, Alf. Which is dead.”
“I thought you guerrilla fellows generally went in for back shooting.”
“So do lawmen,” I said. “When it's convenient.”
Alf jerked around, seeing Yardlinger and me for the first time. His left arm moved spasmodically. I shouted at him to hold it and came around the end of the bar, keeping the carbine pointed at his thick hard belly. There was a row of beer pulls behind the bar to his left, including one that didn't match the others. I grasped it and tugged a Schofield revolver out of a greased socket.
“For shame,” I said, and backhanded him across his flat face, laying the revolver's long barrel along his right cheekbone. He clapped a hand to the cheek and staggered back against the shelves behind the bar. Bottles clattered. He took his hand away and
looked at his fingers. There was no blood, but a reddish welt had risen under his eye.
looked at his fingers. There was no blood, but a reddish welt had risen under his eye.
Major Brody chuckled. Yardlinger stared at me in surprise, then remembered himself and swung his shotgun to take in his side of the room.
While the Major covered the bar side I rested the Winchester in the crook of my arm, unloaded the Schofield, and dropped it and the cartridges into a bucket of dirty mop water at my feet. The splash and clunk was loud in the silence of the room.
“That ain't no way to treat a good gun.”
I looked at the speaker, a round-faced man, clean-shaven, with a long cigar screwed into the center of his mouth, calmly dealing cards at a table next to the bar. His fine blond hair was parted just above his left ear and combed across his scalp to make up for what he'd lost on top. In his town suit he looked as much like a cowhand as I looked like Eddie Foy. I recognized one of the three silent men seated with him as a lounger I had driven from French Sam's.
I said, “Who says the Schofield's a good gun?”
“Jesse James, for one.”
“That explains how he blew the raid on Northfield. You're Pardee?”
He threw away two cards and slid two more from the deck. “You're Murdock.”
“Now that we're on a last-name basis, let's talk. You know some men are on their way here from Dick Mather's spread.”
“I heard something on that order. In for two.” He tossed a pair of chips into the center of the table.
“Talk is you think it was Mather's boys almost strung up your brother.”
“See it and raise you five.” The man from Sam's sweetened the pot. The man at his right folded. The fourth man equaled the bet.
“Raise ten.” More chips left Pardee's stack.
“Trying to buy the pot,” grumbled the fourth player.
“It'll cost him.” The man from Sam's saw the raise.
I leaned across the bar and brought the barrel of the Winchester smashing down atop the table. Chips and cards flew.
“Goddamn!” Pardee reached for his hip.
A roar shook the room. The cigar smoker's hand sprang away empty. In the loud silence that followed, everyone in the room gaped at the Major, standing in a cloud of swirling blue smoke, his shotgun pointed at the ceiling and a litter of plaster around his feet. He chewed casually.
“Hey!” The bartender was first to shake off the spell. “Who's going to pay for that?”
Brody drew his lips tight against his gums and shot a stream at the nearest cuspidor. “I reckon Pardee's the man you should talk to about that. It was him startled me into yanking this here trigger, going to scratch that there itch on his hip so sudden.”
“The idea was to get your attention,” I told Pardee. “Why do you think Six Bar Six riders are responsible for what happened to your brother?”
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