Hanging in Wild Wind

Inside the doctor’s office, the ranger looked down at Longworth, who still sat across from the white-haired old doctor. His crushed hand seemed better, having been stretched, pressed and manipulated back into its normal shape. The exposed tendons were back beneath the skin, where they belonged. The skin had been stitched together over them. The swelling appeared to have gone down a little, the ranger thought.

“Huh,” said the doctor before Longworth could answer for himself. “The dang fool refused any laudanum for the pain. He wouldn’t even drink whiskey.”

Sam looked at Longworth’s pained and red-rimmed eyes. He shook his head and said, “You asked me on the trail if I had any whiskey.”

“That was on the way here,” Longworth said. “I wanted it for the pain.” He held his breath as the doctor pushed the hooked needle through the skin of his hand. But he managed to put the pain aside and say, “You heard Bell. We’ve got lots of work to do here. I can’t be drinking. I need my wits about me.”

“You’ve got no business working this evening, not with this hand in this kind of shape,” said the doctor, drawing the stitch snug, tying it and clipping it with a small pair of scissors. “I’m starting to think you’re a little touched in the head, Detective,” he added, getting ready to make another plunge with the hooked stitching needle.

“No, Doctor, I’m not touched,” said Longworth. “I’ve got a job to do and I’m going to do the best I can at it.”

“There’s nothing you’re going to do tonight that can’t wait until tomorrow,” said the doctor, making another stitch. “You won’t be able to use this hand for a while, even to go to the jake.”

Longworth gave another slice of breath, then relaxed and said, “Chief Bell says we need to get some things done. He’s the boss.”

“You should tell Chief Bell to go pile sand up his ass,” the old doctor said matter-of-factly. “Get yourself an honorable job clerking or something.”

“Yeah, sure it is,” said the old doctor wryly. He clipped the stitch and started to make another plunge with the needle.

“Ranger, I know I’ve said it already, but I’m obliged to you for all you’ve done for me,” Longworth said. “If there was time, I’d buy you dinner.”

“Next time I’m through Wild Wind, I’ll hold you to it,” Sam said. “But I’m eating on the trail tonight, before Trueblood’s trail gets too cold to follow.”

“Best of luck to you, Ranger,” said Longworth. He reached his right hand around to shake hands. But the doctor gave him a jerk and said, “Hold still, man! I came dang near sewing your hand to the table.”

Outside, in the long shadows of dusk, Paco Stazo and Huey Buckles rode onto the dirt street from the north. They watched as a man stuck a torch to the oil pots sitting on either front edge of the cantina, but not to the ones sitting directly out front. They both noticed that no music resounded down the empty street to greet them.

“I’m betting this has something to do with the gunshots we heard earlier,” Paco said to Buckles under his breath.

Buckles looked around with his head bowed slightly, moving only his eyes. “I don’t like it,” he replied. “I say we turn around now, and tell Silva—”

“Turn tail if you want to,” Paco Stazo said, cutting him off. “I came to see what’s gong on here. That’s what I intend to do.”

“Hell, me too,” said Buckles, having a fast change of heart. “You didn’t let me finish what I was saying.”

“Never mind now. It don’t matter,” said Buckles with a shrug, looking away as they rode on to the Belleza Grande Cantina.

The two climbed down from their horses and spun the reins around an iron hitch rail, noting that theirs were the only mounts there. “This ain’t natural,” said Buckles, sounding wary and unsure of himself.

“Neither is riding into a town and not having whiskey to drink,” Paco said, nodding toward the closed door and the cantina’s dark interior through a dusty window.

“We’ll see,” said Paco. He stepped onto the boardwalk and to the closed door as the pot lighter walked along the boardwalk with his flaming torch. “Hey you, mister,” Paco said in an agitated tone of voice, “why is the Belleza Grande closed?”

“Damn it, stop him,” Paco said to Buckles. Buckles grabbed the man by the back of his coat. The man turned toward him, the torch coming so close to Buckles’ face that he felt his eyebrows crackle and fry. “Jesus!” he said. “You’ve singed me like a chicken!”

“What happened to the owner?” Paco asked. He raised a finger in warning. “Do not give me another short answer, or we will nail your tongue to this door.”

The old man looked at the rough cantina door as if trying to visualize such an occurrence. He cleared his throat. “A gunman named Harry Ginpole shot him in the head. He shot a young whore and a town selectman. Then a ranger and a detective killed him.”

“A territory ranger and a railroad detective, both in town at the same time? They killed Harry Ginpole?” said Paco, looking all around cautiously, as if the ranger and the detective might be lurking in the shadows.

“That’s right,” said the old pot lighter. “The same ranger was through here last week. Killed another bad egg, a road agent by the name of Wheeler.” He looked back and forth between the two. “It’s been a busy time here in Wild Wind.”

“Road agent . . . ,” said Paco with a smile, not caring much that Wheeler was dead. “That is a name I have not heard in a long while.”

The old man continued. “Today the ranger brought the detective in with a broken hand. He had a woman prisoner. The detective was getting his hand fixed when Harry Ginpole started his killing.”

“A woman prisoner, you say?” Paco asked, getting more interested. “What did she look like, this woman? She is pretty, yes?”

“But this one, did she have nice, you know. . . .” He cupped his gloved hands at his chest and jiggled them up and down.

“Where do you suppose she would be?” the old man said flatly. When he saw the dark look come over Paco’s face, he pointed his torch toward the new jail and sheriff’s office down the empty street.

Paco and Buckles looked just in time to see the single rider in the silver-gray sombrero ride out of sight into the darkness toward the badlands trail. “I’ll be double damned and salted,” said Huey Buckles.

“Yep,” said Buckles, “that’s him—the one who killed Junior Lake and his pa. He always wears a gray sombrero. Right, old man?”

“So the story goes,” the old man said. For the first time he looked the two up and down. “Say, you fellows aren’t road agents yourselves, are you?”

“See where to kick this door in,” said Paco. “A road agent does not ride this far and not get something to drink.” He drew his Colt, pointed it at the old man and wagged it toward the locked door.

From the boardwalk out in front of the restaurant three blocks away, Bell had heard a crash come from the cantina. He stepped into the street for a better look and saw the light of the torch flicker through the dusty front window. What the hell? Feeling his bare hip where his holstered Colt should be, he started to turn and go to the sheriff’s office and get the big gun. But then he reminded himself that whoever it was inside the Belleza Grande, he shouldn’t need a gun to roust them out. He walked on with determination along the darkened street.

Inside the cantina, Paco and Huey Buckles stood at the bar with a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses between them. Standing beside them, the old pot lighter held the torch up for them to see by. Even as Paco filled two glasses for Buckles and himself, he kept his gun trained on the old man.

“I don’t know that it’s a good idea, us being in here when there’s railroad lawmen in town,” Buckles said. But his concern didn’t keep him from upending the shot glass to his dry lips and draining it.

“We saw the ranger leave, Huey,” said Paco. “Railway detectives don’t give a damn about a man opening a cantina to get himself a cut or two of whiskey.” He tipped his shot glass as if in salute, then tossed back his drink in one gulp.

“Merlin Fletcher,” said the torch holder. “Most folks call me Gabby.” Holding the torch in one hand, he laid his other hand on the bar and gestured toward the bottle. “Suppose I said could take myself a swig? Holding this thing cocked up like this builds a thirst.”

While Buckles snagged a shot glass from a stack along the inside edge of the bar, out front, Bell eased up onto the boardwalk and peeped in through the dusty window. He watched the ragged Comanchero pour a glass of whiskey and stand it in front of Gabby Fletcher. He took note of the pistol in the Mexican’s hand, its barrel aimed loosely in Gabby’s direction.

As he slid the filled shot glass closer to his waiting fingertips, Paco said to the old man, “Tell me, Gabby Fletcher—how are things going here? I mean, with Western Railways setting up an office, a rail spur and such.”

“Going well,” said the old man. He picked up the glass, tossed back half its contents and let out a whiskey hiss.

“Good, good. That is good to hear,” said Paco, eyeing the old man with scrutiny. He leaned in closer and asked privately, “And what of the money? Has Western Railways sent in any money?”

“Money? What kind of money?” The old man raised the glass, drained it, set it down and pushed it back toward the bottle with a bony fingertip.

“Oh, you are cagey as a fox. You are, my friend,” Paco laughed under his breath. He refilled the shot glass and shoved it back over to Fletcher, who let the torch sag a little as he relaxed in a whiskey glow. “I am talking about operating money. Big money. The kind of money it takes for a company to buy silver from the hill mines and transport it out of these badlands.”

“Oh, that money,” Fletcher said. He appeared to put some thought into the matter. “I recall hearing that some money come into Wild Wind a while back. I can’t say how much it was or—”

“That’ll do, Gabby,” Bell interrupted. He stood inside the open doorway amid broken planks that had flown off the frame when Paco put his big boot to the thick oak door. “One man should never discuss another man’s money. That’s the way I was raised to believe in Nebraska.”

Paco and Buckles spun toward the big railway detective chief. Both stood with their guns pointing at him. But upon seeing that the man was unarmed, Paco let his gun slump and said, “Ah, Nebraska. Tell me, did they ever find out where they are?”

Bell let the insult slide past him. “This cantina is closed,” he said. “Not that it would have meant much to you two scarecrows.”

“Scarecrows?” Paco looked himself and Buckles up and down. Then he looked back at Bell with a wizened grin. Raising a finger for emphasis he said, “You know what? I don’t think you come here to be sociable, my friend.”

“You’re smarter than you look half-breed,” said Bell, glaring at the two. “Gabby, get yourself out of the way. This is a matter for the law.”

“A letter?” said Paco, cocking the Colt in his hand. “You are a very brave man or an idiot, coming here with no badge, no gun.” His brow furrowed; he shook his head. “Just a letter?”

“That’s right. A letter,” said Bell. “It tells everybody that Western Railways Transportation is now the law in Wild Wind.” As he spoke, he looked around at the debris on the floor at his feet. “As far as a gun, I’ve got one in the sheriff’s office.” He stepped forward, bent over and picked up a three-foot-long oak plank. He hefted it in his broad hands and inspected it.

“In the sheriff’s office?” said Paco, dismissing the plank as a threat. His smile melted into a serious look. “But, senor, we have ours right here, as you can see.” He wagged his gun, as if the stocky, red-bearded detective hadn’t yet noticed it.

“Jesus, look out!” Buckles shouted, seeing the detective suddenly charge forward like a raging buffalo, head down, gripping the plank like a baseball bat.

Paco fired his already cocked and aimed pistol. But just as he fired, Bell zigzagged quickly, swinging the rough, hard plank. The whistling plank smacked the gun from Paco’s hand as it fired wildly into the ceiling. The gun flew across the cantina before it ever hit the floor. The second swing slapped Paco across his face with a sickening sound. He spun along the bar edge as Gabby Fletcher jumped back out of his way, his torch flickering in hand.

Buckles was stunned and frozen in place by the speed and fierceness of Bell’s attack. Before he could react, Bell’s plank slapped him sideways to the floor. His gun flew from his hand. Both outlaws lay prone and helpless. But not for long. Although addled from the blow to his face, Paco managed to shake his head clear and scramble along the dirty floor. Bell gave chase, swatting him with the plank as if he were a roach.

Behind Bell, Buckles recovered quickly in spite of his throbbing jaw and the insistent ringing in his ears. While Bell swatted Paco, Buckles hurled himself forward atop Bell’s broad shoulders in an attempt to bring the man down.

Buckles hung on, but it was like riding an enraged grizzly. Bell slung him back and forth as if he were a rag doll, growling loudly, reaching back over his shoulders and clawing at the outlaw’s eyes.

But Bell saw the big knife too. As Paco made a killing lunge at his chest, Bell spun quickly, putting Buckles between himself and the big blade. Paco couldn’t stop himself from sinking the blade deep into Buckles’ haunch. Gabby Fletcher stood watching raptly, a shot glass raised halfway to his lips, his torch still in his hand, casting an eerie, flickering glow over the melee.

With the screech of a wounded mountain cat, Buckles fell to the floor, clutching the hilt of the big knife sticking out of his bloody rear.

With the knife gone, Paco reached for a chair. Bell saw the chair swing into the air above Paco’s head. He snatched the torch from Fletcher’s hand and swung it back and forth at the half-breed. “Come on, outlaw! I’ll burn you to the ground!”

Paco backed away; he’d had enough. But as he dropped the chair and headed out the door at a run, Bell turned and looked down at the crawling, screaming Huey Buckles. “Take this, Comanchero!” he said. He jammed the fiery torch down on Buckles’ bloody behind.

Buckles screamed loud and long. He scrambled to his feet on his way out the door, both hands slapping at the flames licking from his trouser seat up to the back of his ragged shirt.

“And don’t come back!” Bell shouted out onto the dark street as the two hurried into their saddles and beat a retreat out of town. Turning to Fletcher, Bell said, “What did you tell them, Gabby?”

No sooner had the two outlaws cut off the main street, out of the light of the oil pots lining the streets, than Longworth came running, rifle in hand. “Chief Bell,” he said, “are you all right?”

Bell brushed a hand along his coat sleeve. “I’m fine, Detective. Those two will think twice before they ever ride back into Wild Wind.”