At three o’clock in the morning, good citizens of Woodlawn slept peacefully and contentedly for the first time since the range war began. Soldiers had returned to the post, the threat to public order was over, normalcy reigned, and only a few diehard drunkards remained in saloons, snoozing at tables.
Near the sheriff’s office, a shadowy figure moved on tiptoes through an alley. Muggs, sleeping in front of the office door, cocked an eye and activated his nose. Wood smoke, garbage, and offal stirred his glands. He picked out movement in the alley. What’s this?
He raised his head as something came flying through the air. In a second, Muggs was on his feet, running out of the way. But he miscalculated the object’s trajectory in the dark, and it landed in the middle of the street. A breeze passed over it and wafted meat perfume to Muggs’s nostrils.
His fur bristled with suspicion as his mouth watered with anticipation. The latter got the best of the former, and he carefully advanced into the street. Boettcher watched from the alley, perched on one knee, his rifle tight to his shoulder, aiming at the moonlit street. Just a little closer, you flea hound, and when John Stone comes out to investigate, I'll shoot his ass too, Boettcher sucked his breath and held it.
Muggs stepped cautiously into the street, and knew meat didn’t arrive from nowhere. The glorious fragrance grew stronger, but he detected a familiar strain mixed with it. Muggs barked in outrage, leapt over the steak, and dived into the alley as a bullet whistled over his head.
Boettcher saw the dog coming, a wave of stark terror came over him. The brave sharp-toothed animal sprang through the air, and Boettcher swung his rifle like a bat. But he aimed too high, and Muggs dug his fangs into Boettcher’s thigh.
Boettcher screamed, lost his balance, and fell to the ground as Muggs tore flesh away. The ramrod managed to yank his Colt and fire wildly into the shadows as Muggs clamped his jaws harder. Boettcher slammed the barrel of his gun onto Muggs’s head, but the dog’s fighting spirit wouldn’t turn loose his adversary. Boettcher desperately hammered Muggs’s skull again and again, and finally Muggs became dazed by the heavy blows. Boettcher shook the dog away, aimed at Muggs’s furry head, and pulled the trigger.
Muggs’s skull blew apart, he collapsed onto the ground, blood dripping from his fangs. Boettcher limped away as lights came on in the buildings all around him. “What the hell’s goin’ on out there!”
“Somebody ought to do somethin’ about them goddamned dawgs!” replied an old biddy in a nearby attic.
Stone pulled on his boots and ran across the street. He plunged into the alley and saw a dark familiar figure lying on the ground. Muggs’s eyes were glassy in the light of the moon. Stone tried to grasp what was happening.
Citizens emerged from their homes, wearing coats over their sleeping clothes, carrying lanterns. The dog became illuminated by a golden effulgence. Stone noticed a scrap of brown cloth caught in his fangs. A terrible bloodcurdling anger threatened to overrule the sheriff’s focus. He stroked the faithful beast’s bloody snout, and tried to imagine where the killer would go.
Boettcher lurched into a privy and closed the door. A terrible odor burbled up from the depths beneath the hole as he removed his coat, tore his shirt into strips, and applied a bandage to the gaping wound on his thigh. In the distance he heard shouting. Panic came over him, but he fought it down. Blood soaked through the bandage and showed no sign of letting up. He felt weak and dizzy. I’d better go to the sawbones and get fixed.
His hand froze on the doorknob. That’s where Stone’ll expect me to go. Or he’ll come a-lookin' fer me at the hotel. Boettcher realized he had only one possibility. Get out of town. He opened the door of the privy and peeked outside. Nothing moved in the vicinity, so he hobbled toward the stable, fighting to overcome the pain in his leg. Blood dripped into his boot and made his foot wet. I’ll find a sawbones in another town, and come back some other time for John Stone. He ain’t seen the last of me.
He approached the rear of the stable and held his rifle ready. Voices came from the far side of town, and horses shuffled at the sound of his footsteps. He limped inside, smelled manure, wondered if he had the strength to bridle and saddle his horse. “Anybody here?” he asked.
“Me.”
Boettcher spun around. A fist like a cement block came out of nowhere and socked him on the jaw. The force of the blow flung him onto a pile of horse manure. Stone gathered Boettcher’s rifle and six-gun, then lit the lantern hanging from a nearby post. The scrap of cloth in Muggs’s teeth matched Boettcher’s pants. Stone drew both Colts and aimed at Boettcher’s head. “Why’d you shoot my dog?”
Boettcher gazed into the depths of two iron barrels. “He came at me, had to defend myself.”
“My dog never bothered anybody unless there was a reason.”
Horses shuffled uneasily in the stalls, and Boettcher noticed Stone’s face streaked with tears. “You’re the sheriff,” Boettcher said with an uncertain wheedling smile. “You got to give me a fair trial.”
“You just had it,” Stone replied, and tightened his finger around the trigger.
Boettcher raised his hand. “But it was only a goddamned dawg! No judge’d convict fer shootin’ a dawg.”
Stone pulled the triggers, and his shots reverberated through the barn, while horses neighed and stomped in their stalls. Then Stone fired again to make sure. Boettcher’s blood soaked into the horse manure and ran in rivulets along the floorboards. Stone wished he could kill him ten more times, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t bring Muggs back.
Stone rambled out of the barn and couldn’t believe Muggs was gone. We were together so long, and I never took good care of him. He had to fend for himself but saved my life more’n once.
On the other side of the street was the Blue Bottle Saloon. Without even thinking about it, Stone found himself crossing over. The bartender slept with his head on a table, and a few drunkards were passed out. In a corner, a rat nibbled a crust of filthy bread.
Stone walked behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of rotgut, took a swig, and made his way to a table, dropping heavily. My woman threw me out, some son of a bitch killed my dog, and I’ve got to get out of here. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his coins, and counted fifteen dollars. Maybe I can flimflam some money from the mayor. This town owes me for getting Mulgrave off their backs.
He took a few more swallows, arose unsteadily, and carried the bottle with him. He stumbled over the sidewalk, assailed by confusion and conflict. One part of him wanted to beg Leticia to marry him. Another wanted to drop to his knees and cry over poor little Muggs. But if I stop, I’ll never get going again. I’m at my best when I live like a soldier.
He tried to think of what General Lee would do, but the general’d never flimflam anybody for money. He turned the corner and saw the mayor’s parlor lights blazing. Stone climbed onto the porch and kicked the door. Then he caught himself, because General Lee always behaved courteously, no matter how severe the provocation. The door was opened by the distinguished lawgiver himself, who appeared flustered by the sight of his sheriff.
“May I help you?” the mayor asked officiously.
Stone unpinned the tin badge and held it out. “I quit. You owe me a hundred dollars, I reckon.”
The mayor raised his hand like a celestial judge. “Ah, but you’ve only worked four days. We can’t pay you a month’s salary for that.”
Stone felt further deterioration of his mood. “I saved this town from a range war. Seems to me that’s worth a hundred dollars. Once you offered me that much for not doing anything.”
“Times have changed,” the major said. “Now, if you care to come to my office in the morning, we’ll settle this.”
The mayor tried to close the door, but Stone held it back with his boot. “We’ll settle right now.”
Stone pushed Mayor Blodgett aside and entered the hallway, looking for gold, silver, anything he could sell for traveling money. Mayor Blodgett followed him, recalling Sheriff Barnes’s warning about pinning a badge on a gunfighter. Stone came to the parlor, and his heart tripped when he saw his former not-quite wife sitting on a chair near the fireplace.
She stiffened her backbone at the sight of him. He carried a bottle of whiskey and looked ready to tear the roof off. “Hello, Johnny,” she said, trying to hold her voice steady.
Disarmed by her smoldering eyes, Stone went slack in the doorway. Mrs. Blodgett brought him a cup of coffee, and he gulped it down.
“I hope you’re not worried about Leticia,” Mrs. Blodgett said. “We’ll take good care of her.”
Stone wanted to apologize, beg, cry, kiss Leticia’s feet, but General Lee would never do any such thing. Pulling himself to the position of attention, he said to Mrs. Blodgett, “I saved this town from range war, and your husband won’t pay me.”
Mayor Blodgett pointed a finger at the ceiling. “But he wants a hundred dollars! That’s far too much for four days work, most of it spent drinking for free in our local saloons!”
Stone replied, “If I don’t get out of this town soon, I’ll rip it apart.” He yanked his guns and triggered rapidly. A porcelain vase imported from China exploded on the mantel. Then a lead slug burrowed through a shelf clock made in Newburyport, Massachusetts. A rare candelabra smashed apart on a tambour desk. Stuffing burst from a hole in a crewel-embroidered linen chair.
“That’s enough!” Leticia screamed.
Stone eased the pressure off his triggers as her voice resonated through the attic of the house. She balled her fists and walked toward the mayor.
“When we arrived in this town,” she said evenly, “it was on the verge of destruction. John Stone saved you, and if that’s not worth two hundred dollars, I’m not interested in living here. Find yourself a new schoolmarm.”
Mrs. Blodgett shot her husband that special look, and he got the message. “Let’s not be hasty,” the mayor cajoled. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
Stone saddled Warpaint, threw bags over the horse’s haunches, and climbed aboard. Warpaint’s hooves echoed off the storefronts, all lights out on Main Street. Stone spotted the doctor’s office on the far side of the street, and thought of saying good-bye to Spruance and Muggs for the last time. He tied Warpaint’s reins over the rail and knocked on the door. Dr. Jurgen Horbach appeared, wearing his robe, eyeglasses crooked on his nose. He’d obtained his medical degree in Berlin, then moved to the new world in search of greater opportunities. “Who haf you killed zis time?” he asked sleepily.
“I want to see my friends.”
“Veil yes, but...”
Stone entered the hallway, and the doctor felt compelled to lead him to a small white room. Spruance lay on a table, covered with an old army blanket, his face like white Italian marble. “Looks like he’s asleep,” Stone muttered as he reached out to touch him.
Dr. Horbach caught Stone’s hand. “He is asleep.”
Stone stared at the doctor. “What?”
“He is hanging by a thread. I haf taken eight bullets out of him, but the bleeding has stopped.”
“I thought he’d died.”
“So did everybody else, but when I examined him, he had a pulse. Not much, mind you, but a pulse nonetheless. I brought him here, and he has not died yet.”
“What’re his chances?”
“It is in the hands of Gott.”
Stone tried to pray. You haven’t done much for me lately, but please bring your healing presence to Lieutenant Spruance. You said you love repentant sinners, and he was one of the best Stone took off the Shoshoni amulet necklace and tied it around Spruance’s throat. Good luck, Lieutenant. We’ll meet again someday I’m sure. Then Stone turned to Dr. Horbach. “Where’s my dog?”
Dr. Horbach led him to the room across the hall. Boettcher lay naked on a table, and on the floor nearby was Muggs, covered with blood.
Stone didn’t like to see Muggs near the man who killed him. “I’ll take him with me. Got something to wrap him in?”
The frightened doctor brought a sheet, and Stone rolled Muggs into it. The doctor opened the door, and Stone gazed into his eyes. “I’m counting on you to give Lieutenant Spruance the best possible medical attention.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Stone. You can rely on Dr. Horbach. And if you ever get shot, come see me. I vill take care of you too.”
Stone counted a hundred dollars and handed it to the doctor. “If he gets better, give him this. Otherwise, make sure he gets a decent funeral.”
Stone carried Muggs outside and lashed him to the back of the saddle. Dr. Horbach stood in his doorway and watched the fastest gun alive ride out of town. The white cocoon on the horse’s rump remained visible for a long time, then it too faded and disappeared in the endless dimensions of night.