Bloody Sunday (A John Stone Western--Book 11) Page 17

  He wanted to put his fist through the wall. I was ready to devote the rest of my life to this woman, but I’ll never get mixed up with another in my life.

  “Please don’t be mad at me,” she said.

  He paused beside the door and bowed slightly. “The best of luck to you.” Then he slammed the door behind him. I’ve got to get out of town before I kill somebody, he thought. Cold wind crashed into him as he walked along the sidewalk, heart filled with wrath. He wanted to punch a wall, but held himself from demolishing his hand.

  The Blue Bottle came into view, and Stone felt the urge for a drink. But once I start, I won’t stop until I’m lying in the gutter. Go to sleep and forget about it.

  But he couldn’t forget about it, and sleep wouldn’t come to his agitated state of mind. It looks like another night of hard drinking, he admitted as he crossed the street. He recalled awakening in gutters, jail, the bedrooms of women he didn’t remember, and once on a pile of horseshit. I don’t know what it’s going to be, and I don’t give a damn.

  He pulled open the door of the saloon. Every eye in the house turned to the sheriff, gunfighter, killer, and husband of the schoolmarm. The news had finally reached town about the annihilation of Mulgrave and his hired guns.

  “Whiskey,” he said to the bartender.

  “On the house, Sheriff.” The glass filled with a triple shot, and Stone peered into the amber fluid. He poured half into his mouth, rolled it around on his tongue, squirted it through his teeth, and swallowed it like water.

  The rotgut hit him like Gatling gunfire. His knees went gooey, his head fell three inches, but then he caught himself and rested an elbow on the bar.

  The saloon spun around his eyeballs. He gazed blankly into space, unaware of danger. On the far side of the room, Boettcher debated shooting him in the back. But they said John Stone was drunk the night he shot Randy LaFollette.

  Boettcher tried to catch a sense of who his rival was, as his hand floated toward his gun. Something growled near his feet, and Boettcher glanced down at a dog with huge pointed fangs. I’ll take care of you, doggie, but some other time.

  Muggs could sense hostility coming from the man. He took a long careful sniff, to catch every nuance of his essence. Boettcher headed for the door, and Muggs watched him go, a shiver running up his back.

  At the bar, John Stone raised his glass for another swallow. The rotgut socked him in the stomach, he sucked air between his teeth, and forgot what was bothering him. Half the tables in the saloon empty, he found one against the far wall and sat, resting his glass on the table.

  The full weight of recent events pressed him to the chair. His hands felt like ammunition crates as he tried to roll a cigarette. In times of extremity, he asked himself what General Lee would do.

  The memory of General Lee had a calming influence on the former cavalry officer. He looked at the dregs of whiskey in his glass. I don’t need this fermented garbage juice anymore. But he swallowed the contents anyway and felt like a shooting star. The saloon came back eventually. He arose, hitched up his gunbelts, and walked unsteadily toward the door. The bartender opened it, and Stone fell into the cool whistling breeze. Turning up his collar, he headed for the sheriff’s office. “I don’t need women,” he muttered. ‘They can all go to hell.”

  ~*~

  Boettcher sat at the bar of the Silver Spur Saloon, sipping a glass of whiskey. I can’t bushwhack Stone as long as he’s got that dog watching out for him.

  He thought of Muggs’s thick drooling lips and short pointed ears. Never saw an uglier dog in my damned life. Boettcher tossed back the remainder of his whiskey, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slid from his bar stool, and made his way to the chop counter. “Gimme a steak,” he said to the cook. “And I don’t need no plate.”

  ~*~

  Stone opened the door of his office, and Shuttleworth sat in his cell, surrounded with empty plates and stacks of paper covered with handwriting. Stone stared at him in disbelief. “You’re still here?”

  “You’re the man with the keys.”

  Stone took down the ring from the wall and unlocked the cell. ‘Take a walk and don’t bother me anymore.”

  But Shuttleworth didn’t want to lose access to the subject of his book. “That’s all right, you can keep me here. I deserve to spend time in jail. I’m no goddamned good.”

  The cell dark, Stone didn’t notice pages on the cot. “I said get the hell out.”

  Stone stuffed old newspapers and, sticks of wood into the stove, then lit a fire and clanged shut the door. Shuttleworth emerged from the cell, carrying his briefcase full of precious stories. An old woman brought food, paper, pencils, and the latest news during his incarceration, for which she extorted a high sum.

  “Heard the range war’s over,” Shuttleworth said. “How’d it feel to shoot Mulgrave?”

  Stone grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pushed him toward the door.

  “I’m a member of the press! You can’t do this to me!”

  Stone kicked him in the butt, and the intrepid reporter went flying into the street. Muggs leapt from his spot in front of the jail, to let him pass. Shuttleworth landed in a puddle of muck and grime.

  “You’ll regret that!” Shuttleworth raged, shaking his fist. “I’ll blacken your name on the front page of every newspaper in this land!”

  Stone closed the door and pushed the desk against it, so no one could get into the office. Then he positioned the cot where he couldn’t be shot from the window. He sat on a chair and pulled off his boots, tossed his hat on a peg, unbuckled his gunbelts, and stretched out, holding a Colt in his right hand, finger wrapped around the trigger. In seconds he was fast asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  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 dripp
ing 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.”