It was the hour before dawn, and a crowd of horsemen gathered in front of the sheriff’s office.
They were ranchers, cowboys, businessmen, freighters, farmers, and drifters. Their saddlebags were filled with food; bedrolls were tied to their saddles. Each had guns, rifles, and plenty of ammunition. They were ready for war if that’s what it’d take to rid their territory of outlaws.
Dunwich was among them, wearing his British suit with a cowboy hat, and he’d bought a Sharps .50 caliber buffalo gun from a drunken hunter at an exorbitant price. He also had a gunbelt with two holsters and two heavy guns.
In his saddlebags were three pounds of cheese, numerous tins of meat, and two loaves of bread. He had two canteens of water and one canteen filled with the finest whiskey he could buy at that time of night. The atmosphere in the street reminded him of a Saturday morning hunt in the English countryside, except this time they were hunting men who were heavily armed too.
The door opened, and Sheriff Butler stepped onto the planked sidewalk. He wore a gun in a holster and carried a rifle in his right hand.
Looking at the men gathered before him, and they numbered more than a hundred, he said: “From now on, until I release you from duty, you’re lawmen under my supervision! We’re goin’ after a bunch of men who’re dangerous, so foller my orders and don’t try nothin’ on yer own! If any of you has any doubts about what we’re gonna do, this is the time to turn around and go home. I don’t want any man here who might choke if we find ourselves shootin’!”
He paused, and the riders milled around in the street. No one left the posse.
“Who’s got the dynamite?” Sheriff Butler asked.
A hand went up in the posse. “I do!”
“You ride near me. The rest of you fall in behind us.”
Sheriff Butler climbed onto his horse and put the spurs to its flanks. The horse trotted out of town, and the posse followed, hoofbeats thundering in the streets and echoing off buildings, as they headed for Rattlesnake Canyon.
Stone rode into Clarksdale at noon and brought his horse to a stop in front of the sheriff’s office. He climbed down from the saddle, threw the reins over the rail, and went inside.
A deputy sat behind the desk, reading a newspaper.
“Sheriff in?” Stone asked.
“Nope.”
“When you expect him?”
“A few days.”
“Got a problem,” Stone said. “That horse I’m ridin’ is stolen, but I don’t know who it’s stolen from, and I didn’t steal it myself.”
The deputy lay the newspaper on the desk. “How did you come by it?”
“Somebody gave it to me.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t get his name?”
“Where do you know him from?”
“He held up a stagecoach I was on a few days ago east of Deadman’s Flats.”
The deputy wrinkled his forehead. “What’s yer name?”
“John Stone.”
The deputy touched his fingers to his stubbled jaw. “That name sounds familiar.”
“Somebody’s offering a thousand dollars for me.”
The truth dawned on the deputy. “John Stone! Is that who you are? How’d you git loose?”
“The outlaws let me go.”
“Somebody’s already claimed the reward money. The posse left for Rattlesnake Canyon at dawn, to bring you back.”
“Who claimed the reward money?”
“A kid, about sixteen I’d say. Clean-cut, with black curly hair. Acted kinda peculiar. You all right, mister?”
Stone left the sheriff’s office and headed straight for the nearest saloon. He felt entitled to at least one drink, because he hadn’t had a drop since leaving Rattlesnake Canyon.
The bartender poured him a glass, and Stone drank it down. He nodded to the bartender to pour another.
Stone thought about Ewell and Beau. Ewell always had been an odd little person, withdrawn and quiet, with strange mannerisms. Beau had been ashamed of Ewell.
Stone wanted to warn Beau, but the posse had too long a head start. Beau’d have a fight on his hands when Sheriff Butler and his men arrived.
Stone thought of poor lost Veronica. What would happen to her? How odd that his life intersected again with hers and Beau’s just before a major catastrophe struck them again.
Stone realized he was on his fourth glass of whiskey. He finished it and walked out of the saloon, heading for the stagecoach office.
He walked down the sidewalk, stomach in and chest out, feeling fairly healthy for a change. It’d been good to sleep under the stars, far from the suffocating atmosphere of Rattlesnake Canyon, and San Antonio was straight ahead. All he needed was more money.
He entered the stagecoach office. A man wearing a green visor stood behind the cage, writing something. “What can I do for you?” he asked pleasantly.
“I was on the stagecoach to Santa Fe a few days ago,” Stone explained, “and I was taken prisoner by some outlaws not far from Deadman’s Flats. I just got back in town, and I was wondering if I could get a refund on my trip.”
“Afraid not,” the man said. “Pitkin Overland went out of business two days ago.”
Stone thought of Pitkin and his girlfriend on the top floor of the King Hotel in Denver. “You know what happened to Raymond Slipchuck, the Pitkin driver?”
“Last thing I heard he was drinkin’ at The Blind Pig.”
Stone entered The Blind Pig, and it was like a pure vision of hell. A man in a greasy shirt played a piano badly, and the air was thick with smoke. Couples squeezed and squirmed in the booths, and Slade, the cowboy from the earlier stagecoach ride, sat by himself with his back to a wall, facing the door. Slade and Stone looked at each other, and although they’d sat together inside the cramped stagecoach all the way from Arizona, they didn’t say a word or even acknowledge each other’s existence. Stone wondered what Slade’s game was, as he penetrated more deeply into the murky depths of The Blind Pig.
A middle-aged woman wearing smeared cosmetics slithered up to Stone. “You wan’ make very fine love?” she asked with a smile.
“I’m looking for an old stagecoach driver named Ray Slipchuck.”
“He ees asleep. I fuck heem teel he can’t move. You make love with me, yes?”
She brushed her lips against his jaw, and touched her breasts to his shirt.
“Let the old man sleep,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “You and me—we go back to the room, hokay?”
“Where is he?”
She pointed, and he walked toward the far corner. Sprawled against the wall, his eyes closed, was Slipchuck.
Stone sat next to him. Slipchuck’s hat lay on the floor, and Stone bent over to pick it up. Slipchuck had long gray hair, hadn’t shaved for several days, and smelled awful. A waitress walked by with a bottle and a tray of glasses. Stone raised his finger in the air.
“One whiskey,” he said.
Slipchuck opened his eyes and groaned.
“Make that two whiskeys.”
She poured the drinks, and Stone paid. Slipchuck put his hat on and stared at Stone.
“Where the hell did you blow in from?”
“Just got in town about a half hour ago.”
“Thought you’d be dead by now. What happened?”
“Had a vacation for a few days. Heard you lost your job.”
“Pitkin spent the family jewels,” Slipchuck said, “and I’m flat on my ass again.”
“You’ll find something else.”
“Nobody wants to hire an old man.”
“You can drive a stagecoach as well as anybody I ever saw.”
“What did them outlaws do with you?”
“We drank a lot.”
“Wish they’d kidnapped me. There’s a thousand-dollar reward for you. Maybe you can git it?”
“You know who put up the money?”
“McManus and an Englishman, and the Englishman was in the posse with the rest of ’em. I been ridin’ in posses before most of ’em was born, but that hardass sheriff said I was too old for this one, and they wouldn’t let me go with ’em, the no-good bastards. I hope they get their asses shot off.”
Stone and Slipchuck drank all afternoon, and Slipchuck passed out about five o’clock. Stone carried Slipchuck to the broken-down hotel where he was staying, and dropped him into bed.
Then Stone returned to the street. He was drunk again and disgusted with himself for letting it go so far. He walked heavily down the planked sidewalk, a cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth, and saw the Carrington Arms. Veering across the street, he was nearly run down by a wagon.
“Watch whar you’re goin’—you goddamn drunk!”
Stone walked into the lobby of the Carrington Hotel and approached the clerk at the front desk. “Is Edward McManus in?”
The clerk told him the room number. Stone climbed the stairs, walked down the hall, knocked on the door. There was no response. He knocked again. Still nothing. As he was turning to walk away, he heard footsteps inside the room. The door opened and McManus stood there, bleary-eyed, his collar button undone.
Stone entered the room. One empty bottle and one half full sat on the coffee table.
McManus collapsed onto a chair. “She left me for another man,” he said plaintively.
Stone reached for the bottle and filled up McManus’s glass, then filled a glass for himself. “A man who was one of my best friends probably will be killed tonight.”
“I never realized how much I loved her.”
“He’s gone rotten, and I guess he deserves whatever happens to him, but he was a good friend when I was young.”
They drank whiskey and talked drunkenly. The bed was unmade and the curtains were half-closed.
“Thought of killing myself,” McManus said. “But the thought soon passed.”
“His brother turned him in,” Stone muttered.
McManus looked at Stone. “Talk to her for me. Tell her how much I need her.”
“You can’t convince a woman of something unless she wants to be convinced.”
“Don’t know why I love her, because she’s stupid, indolent, narrow-minded, and coarse.”
“Your wife is a beautiful woman.”
McManus wheezed. “Maybe that’s why I need her. I love beauty.” McManus’s huge belly hung out of his shirt like a wrinkled pink watermelon.
“I wanted to thank you for posting the reward money.”
“Was the only decent thing to do. Wait a minute! How come you’re here so soon?”
“Outlaws turned me loose. Guess they got sick of me.”
“Doesn’t look as if they harmed you much. Why’d they take you away?”
“Needed a hostage, I guess.”
“I think I’ll kill myself,” McManus said. “I can’t go on like this.”
“Have another whiskey,” Stone suggested.
They continued to drink, grumble, and complain. McManus passed out two hours later. When Stone realized McManus wasn’t responding to him anymore, he arose from his chair and pitched toward the door.
He left the hotel and crossed the street, heading for the Emerald City. It was going to be a night of hard drinking, there was no question about it. He walked inside, bought a drink at the bar, and carried it to a table in the corner. I’ll sip this one slowly, he said to himself.
He brought the whiskey to his lips and thought again of Beau. The posse would come to Rattlesnake Canyon soon. They’d attack in the darkness and shoot every outlaw they saw.
Stone wondered if there was another way out of the canyon. An able commander would have paths of retreat planned in advance for every contingency, and Beau had been an able commander.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
Stone looked up and saw Lady Diane Farlington, a worried expression on her face. She sat next to Stone. “Heard you were released by the outlaws. You know about Paul? He’s gone on the posse, and I’m afraid he’ll be killed.”
“It’s a possibility,” Stone admitted.
“You’re drunk. Do you have a place to stay?”
“Not yet.”
“Paul’s bed is empty. You can have it if you like.”
“I’m not ready to go to sleep yet.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“Leave me alone.”
“I won’t leave you alone. We made an arrangement. You’re supposed to tell me about your life. When are you going to start?”
“How much money are we talking about.”
“Twenty dollars for two days of your time, and we’ll pay expenses.”
‘Tell you what,” Stone said. “You give me enough to buy a horse and saddle, and I’ll tell you anything you want, as long as you don’t use my real name.”
“How much is a horse and saddle?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Will you tell me about the Apaches?”
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“And the war?”
“Whatever you want.”
She took out her notepad. “We might as well begin now.”
He leaned back in his chair and wondered where to start. What’s a man’s life? Where does the thread begin? I followed a crooked path to nowhere. I killed men in battle. I’ve slept under the stars. I had a good friend.. .
He drank some whiskey and began to ramble about the war. He told her stories he’d heard around campfires, and described a few unusual things that happened to him. He told her truth and lies, like any man.
Whiskey sloshed down his throat, and he talked about his five years on the frontier. When he couldn’t remember specific details he improvised. He knew she wanted good stories and gave them to her.
“What about the Apaches?” she asked.
He didn’t want to reveal the truth about his friend Lobo, because it would be painful to recall, so he made up a series of wild adventures off the top of his head. She wrote furiously, and he seemed to grow larger in her eyes.
She’d never met anybody like him. What a life he’d led. What a man he was.
But then she caught herself. His eyes were rolling around in his head as he gesticulated with his big arms, describing an incident that may or may not’ve really happened. Is he just another saloon hero?
Mike Holtzman, the black-bearded cowboy from Deadman’s Flats, staggered into the Crystal Palace. He’d just spent his last quarter at a saloon across the street and was hoping to find somebody he knew, some old waddie pal from one of the big trail drives, to buy him a drink or two, maybe even three.
He pushed his hat to the back of his head and placed his hands on his hips, gazing across the room. A sea of heads stretched before him, but no one was familiar.
His eyes swept back over the room, and in the corner near the front window, at a small round table, sat the woman he’d seen a few days before, the one who dressed like a man.
Holtzman’s eye moved to the right, and his eyes fell on John Stone.
Holtzman remembered him, and drew his gun.
At the table, Stone was talking about the time some people tried to lynch him in Texas, when he became aware of a terrific commotion. Men hollered and ran toward the walls and doors. Stone got to his feet and reached for his guns. Diane screamed and raised her fists to her cheeks. Holtzman rushed forward and opened fire, and Stone’s hat flew off his head. Stone triggered both his Colts and Holtzman fanned the hammer of his Stan-Model 1863. The room echoed with the sound of guns, and smoke billowed in the light of the oil lamps.
Holtzman stopped firing. He stood loosely, a quizzical expression on his face, then dropped his gun. Stumbling, his legs went numb and he fell to the floor.
Stone holstered his gun, and turned to Diane, his face a cold furious mask. The stories he’d been telling and what just happened were mixed together, flying around in his head, and he said, “Put that in your notes—did you get it all down?”
The pen had fallen from her hand. She couldn’t speak. The expression on her face reminded him of Veronica.
He grabbed her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
He pulled her to her feet and made his way to the door, passing patrons and waitresses lying under tables and kneeling behind the bar. He dragged her behind him, and she had difficulty moving her feet; they were mildly paralyzed.
They passed through the doors and came to the sidewalk. She looked up into his eyes. He’d been like a great drunken beast, and now he’d awakened.
His heart beat like a drum in his chest. He’d gone from complete repose to a fight to the death in a matter of seconds, and the adrenaline had hit his heart like nitroglycerine. He breathed deeply through his nostrils and was ready for anything.
The street was empty. He saw the sign for the Carrington Hotel and decided it was the best place to go. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he half carried her to the hotel. They went up to her room, and she unlocked the door.
It was a suite similar to the McManus suite, except that it had two beds, each pushed against an opposite wall.
She lit the lamp on the dresser. “I need a drink,” she said, and walked to the bar. “Want one?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He sat on a chair and rolled a cigarette. She poured herself a stiff shot of whiskey and sat on a chair opposite him, crossing her legs. Taking off her hat, she threw it across the room.
“I think I’m going back to England,” she said. “Enough is enough.”
He lit the cigarette and drew smoke into his lungs. The alcohol reasserted itself, and he felt tired. He sprawled in the chair and his eyes drooped. “I’m going to stop drinking,” he said. “If you ever see me taking a drink again, remind me of what I just said.” He bent over and took off his boots. “Which bed is Dunwich’s?”
“That one.”
Stone moved toward it and dropped his hat onto the bedpost.
Then he unstrapped his guns. He hung the holsters on another bedpost, pulled out a gun, and dropped onto the bed, getting comfortable, closing his eyes.
She stared at the gun in his hand. “Aren’t you afraid that thing might go off while you’re asleep?”
“Hasn’t yet.”
“You’re not going to take off your clothes?”
“Too tired.”
He rolled over and she finished her glass of whiskey, blew out the lamp, and walked to her bed. Undressing, she climbed underneath the covers. She closed her eyes and saw the man with the black beard lying dead on the floor of the Crystal Palace.