Authors: William W. Johnstone

A Good Day to Die (10 page)

BOOK: A Good Day to Die

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Each of the three wore some part of a Confederate Army uniform. One sported a gray hat with a faded, frayed yellow-braided hatband. Another was wrapped by a long, tattered knee-length gray overcoat. The third wore baggy gray breeches tucked into the tops of black cavalry boots.

A long-barreled, single-shot smoothbore musket was leaning up in a nearby corner.

Johnny and Luke eyed the trio nonchalantly, as if they weren't looking at them.

“The Fromes Boys,” Johnny said.

“You know 'em?” Luke said, surprised.

“I've seen 'em around. In Quinto, up in the Nations.”

Quinto was a flyspeck town in the middle of a sun-baked plain in what would someday be the Oklahoma Territory, a refuge for deserters, drifters and outlaws.

“They're brothers from the Tennessee hill country, wanted all over the map. They're on the dodge, so they never stay in any one place for too long,” Johnny said.

“Man! They's really unreconstructed,” Luke said, shaking his head.

“They never was constructed in the first place,” Johnny said dryly. “Zeb, Tetch and Jeeter. Zeb's the one with the Billy Goat chin whiskers. Tetch is the big one. Jeeter's the red-haired, sneaky looking one. The Fromes Boys. Three of the meanest faces you ever did see.”

“They look mighty unsociable at that,” said Luke.

“Zeb's so sour he'd cross the street to kick a sleeping dog,” Johnny said. “I seen him do it once. I should've shot him then.”

Despite the crowded conditions in the saloon, the other patrons had left a space around the brothers. The Fromeses sat off by themselves, hunched over their whiskey, glaring out at the world.

They looked none too welcoming, but Wyck Joslyn was undeterred. He went to their table, Stingaree lagging behind.

The brothers looked up as one. Three sets of hard eyes fastened on Joslyn, pinning him. Zeb, the oldest, was possessed of a particularly forbidding gaze. Dark irises were completely surrounded by white eyeball, giving an intent, spooky quality to his unblinking stare.

Few men could have stood under those gun-sight eyes without qualms, but Wyck Joslyn seemed unabashed.

Joslyn did some fast talking and not much of it. Just as wellâthe brothers weren't much for palavering. Whatever his pitch, he must have put it over.

The Fromeses exchanged glances, Tetch and Jeeter looking to Zeb for guidance.

Zeb nodded grudgingly. That went by his way of being an invitation. Joslyn pulled a chair from a nearby empty table, drew it up to the Fromes's table, and sat down. He motioned to Stingaree, telling him something, giving him instructions.

Stingaree went to the bar, shouldering aside several patrons. They were no pushovers, but when they saw he was associated with the evil-eyed Fromeses, they sidled off without protest.

Stingaree got a couple bottles and two cups from McCray, bringing them to the brothers' table. He dragged a chair away from the wall and sat down at the table.

Neither Joslyn nor Stingaree sat with his back to the front door. Both angled their chairs around to the sides so they were partially turned to the front and could keep an eye on it. The chairs extended out from the table like wings.

Joslyn uncorked the bottle and filled Zeb Fromes's cup, followed by Tetch's and then Jeeter's. Then he poured for Stingaree, and lastly, himself. All drank, with no particular evidence of good fellowship, cordiality, or even relish for whiskey. Joslyn did some more talking, not drinking much.

“Quite a coalition.” Johnny stepped away from the bar. “Let's mosey. I could use some fresh air.”

Luke nodded. Fixing the crutch under his left arm, he swung around facing the door. He and Johnny went out, into the street. No porch or boardwalk fronted the Dog Star saloon, just hard-packed dirt under their feet.

High overhead the noonday sun beat down, blanketing the surroundings in bright hot glare.

“Now, what do you suppose Wyck Joslyn's about with the Fromes Boys?” Johnny asked.

“Cooking up some mischief,” Luke said.

“Sure, but what?”

“Whatever it is, it'll probably come to fruit before too long.”

Johnny nodded. He lit a cigar and got it going. South of the Dog Star the buildings were few and far between. A wide expanse of bare dirt mixed with patches of short, tough grass was broken by a handful of straggly trees and bushes.

Beyond lay Mextown, where the Spanish-speaking people of the town lived. A cluster of whitewashed adobe huts and wooden shacks grouped around an oval plaza centered by a shallow, water-filled basin. The area was watered by irrigation troughs fed by a stream snaking across the plains south of town. Small yards and vegetable gardens were marked off by wooden pole fences. A burro hitched to a pole walked around in circles, turning a waterwheel. A youngster walked beside the animal, beating its hindquarters with a stick when it slowed.

West of Mextown lay a big open green space with a rivulet running through it. It was used as a camping ground by westbound wagon trains, Hangtown being the last settlement until New Mexico.

The site was occupied by Major Adams's outfit. About two dozen wagons were in motion. Most were Conestoga-style covered wagons but there were some freight wagons and even one or two high-sided caravan wagons. Hitched to the wagons were teams of horses, mules, or oxen.

Scores of men, women and children thronged the scene. Families for the most part, along with scouts and others of Major Adams's crew.

The wagon train was breaking camp and moving out. It was a slow, laborious process with lots of jockeying for position, balky animals, and clumsy wagon handling.

One by one, the wagons began forming into a long, single-file column. The movement kicked up a tremendous amount of dust, brown clouds rising skyward, shot through with shafts of sunlight. The line of the column angled northwest to pick up the Hangtree trail outside the town limits.

“There go the pilgrims,” Johnny said.

Luke, chawing tobacco, let fly with a spurt of brown juice. “Them greenhorns can't even hardly form up in a single line without fouling up. It's like herding cats.”

“Smart to move 'em out now. The Major knows what he's doing. Those folks could only get into trouble in Hangtown on a Saturday nightâ'specially this Saturday night.”

“They'll wish they stayed put if they cross trails with any Comanches out on the Llano,” said Luke.

“They're gonna link up with the cavalry out at Anvil Flats.”

“Anything that keeps the bluebellies out of town is all right with me.”

“Amen to that.”

“Where to now, Johnny?”

“How about the Golden Spur?”

“I knew that was coming.”

Johnny tried to look innocent. “Don't you want to see the famous Francine Hayes, who drives men wild?”

“The Staffords would like to see her too, I bet,” Luke said. “All hell's gone break loose when that bunch hits town.”

“It'll take some time for them to round up their men and ride in from South Fork,” Johnny said.

“They've had time.”

“We're just going for a looksee, Luke. We'll have a drink or two and be on our way before the storm breaks.”

Luke laughed. “You probably even believe it.”

“Sure I do, or I wouldn't have said it.”

“Some folks, trouble follows them. But you, Johnnyâyou follow trouble.”

“I start it. Hell, that's where the fun is.”

Luke sighed. “When you put it that way, I cain't say no.”

Johnny grinned. “Things have been getting too blamed quiet lately, anyhow.”

Luke shook his head. “Not for long. I got me a feeling.”

S
IX

The Golden Spur and the courthouse were next-door neighbors. A side street ran between them. The rear of the courthouse faced the Golden Spur, as if turning its back on all the drinking, gambling, and whoring of the pleasure palace.

Occupying its own square lot, the Golden Spur was isolated from its neighbors. The two-story wooden frame building fronted south on Trail Street, a rectangle whose long sides ran north-south.

A portion of the faÃ§ade extended above the roofline, forming a broad, flat flare on which the name G
OLDEN
S
PUR
was blazoned in big, bold red letters trimmed with gilt paint. Behind the flare, concealed by it, a man with a rifle sat perched on the flat rooftop. He was Monk, the saloon's bouncer. He was keeping watch for the Staffords and their Ramrod Ranch riders.

The usual gang of loafers and regulars found sitting in the shade on the front porch was absent. They had gone elsewhere to avoid being in the line of fire when the Ramrod bunch came to town.

The entrance of the Golden Spur opened on a large, high-ceilinged space. A long bar stretched along the right-hand wall; on the left side were tables and chairs, most of which were set aside for gambling. It was set with card tables, a Wheel of Chance, and birdcage dice games.

Opposite the front door, toward the rear of the building, a wide central staircase rose to a second-floor mezzanine, with balcony wings extending along two long side walls. Under the mezzanine were rooms used as offices by the saloon's owners, Damon Bolt and his business partner, Mrs. Frye.

Ordinarily, by the noontide hour on a Saturday the Golden Spur would have been doing a brisk trade in gambling, women, and whiskey. Now, it was all but deserted. Abandoned but for its staffers, a number of whom were about to take their leave.

Seated alone at a card table was Damon. Facing the front door, he was playing solitaire, dealing out the cards to himself, arranging them in neat rows by suit and number.

The big room was quiet, hushed. The soft slap of each card could be heard as it was laid down faceup on the table. A pistol lay near his right hand. A bottle of bourbon and a glass stood by his left.

Morrissey, the barkeep, stood behind the bar, wiping the countertop with a damp cloth. It didn't need wiping, but he liked to keep busy. He looked like a barkeep should look, big, bluff, with hair parted down the middle, a black handlebar mustache, and wearing a striped shirt with sleeve garters.

On the other side of the bar stood Creed Teece, the house's resident hired gun. He was loading cartridges into a Henry's repeating rifle. A brown hat with the brim turned up at the sides sat on top of his head. He had a spade-shaped face, big ears that stuck out, long narrow eyes and a bushy mustache. He wore a six-gun on his right hip.

He looked like what he was, a working cowboy, one who worked at the Way of the Gun.

The stillness was shattered by the exodus of whores. Mrs. Frye had rounded them up in their rooms upstairs and herded them down to the ground floor. Some of the youngest, freshest whores in the territoryâCherokee, Nicole, Penny, Vangie, Daryah, and Kateâthey had on their traveling clothes. They were covered up and looked “respectable” enough. Their bags were packed, carpetbags and suitcases, a hatbox or two.

Mrs. Frye had burnt-orange hair and wore a green satin dress. She was thirty, with a long horse face, pinpoint green eyes, thin sharp nose, and a full-lipped, generous mouth. She was bony, angular, with high pointy breasts, and lean hips. Her long legs, what could be seen of them under her ankle-length dress, were her best feature.

She stood at the bar, the whores gathered around her. A few showed grim, white-lipped faces. One or two had moist eyes and quivering chins. They would have taken it a lot harder if Mrs. Frye hadn't already paid them off for their work up to date. That was Damon's idea; he always paid his debts, for good or ill.

At Mrs. Frye's prompting, Morrissey poured out shots for all. She raised her glass. “Drink up, gals, time's a-wasting.” Her voice had a harsh Midwest twang. “It ain't often the house is buying, so get it while you can.”

At the table, Damon filled a shot glass. He rose, holding it up. “Your very good health, ladies. Until we meet again. May it be soon.”

Mrs. Frye nodded. “The sooner we get back to business, the better.” She raised her glass a little higher. “Luck!”

She tossed her drink back like a man, unflinching. The others drained their glasses fast or slow, according to their tolerance for strong drink.

Having emptied his glass, Damon threw it against the wall, where it shattered, causing some of the girls to jump. He sat down, picked up the deck of cards, and resumed playing his game of Solitaire where he had left off.

Mrs. Frye set her glass on the bar. “On your way, girls.” Turning around, she called out, “Swamper!”

“Yes, ma'am!” The man came shuffling to the fore. He was a cheerful derelict, an old drunk who was kept around to do various scut work and chores in return for room and board. His lodgings consisted of a bedroll in the corner of the kitchen and his board was made up mainly of whiskey.

He had long, stringy gray hair, bloodshot eyes, and a face full of broken, spidery blue veins where it was not covered by a straggly beard. He wore a red-and-black flannel shirt, bib denim overalls and hobnailed boots. An oversized horse pistol was stuck into a hip pocket, gun butt jutting out.

“Take the girls over to Honey Bailey's,” Mrs. Frye said. Honey was a brothel keeper, a friendly rival. Her “house” was a few streets north of the Spur. Mrs. Frye turned to the girls. “You girls can stay at Honey's until the trouble's blown over. Worse comes to worse, you'll all find work there. With what you've got to sell, none of you will have to worry about starving.”

She turned back to Swamper. “Take them out the back way. Wait until Monk gives you the word.”

“Yes, ma'am. C'mon, ladies.”

The women picked up their bags. Swamper started toward the rear of the building, weaving slightly. The women followed.

“Good luck, Damon,” one said.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Get on with you and don't bother the man,” Mrs. Frye said, shooing the whores on their way.

Swamper led them through a passageway behind the staircase to the back door that opened onto Commerce Street. He opened the door and stuck his head outside. The street was quiet. Only a handful of people were scattered along its length, none showing evidence of any hostile intent.

Exiting, Swamper staggered a few paces away from the back of the building. He tilted his head back, looking up at the roof. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he bawled, “Hey Monk, what d'you say?”

The bouncer, up on the roof keeping watch for Ramrod riders, shouted, “All clear!”

Mrs. Frye hurried the whores out of the building into the street. “There's only five of youâone's missing. Wait up, Swamper.” Cursing under her breath, she went back to the main floor.

The sixth whore, Nicole, stood lingering by the staircase. She was plain faced, with a sensational figure. Her eyes were downcast, her expression sullen, a stubborn set to her chin.

“What're you waiting for, a special invitation? Git!” Mrs. Frye exclaimed.

Nicole stayed in place. “What about Francine?”

“Never you mind,” Mrs. Frye snapped. “Other arrangements are being made for her.”

“What arrangements?”

“That's none of your business. On your way!”

Nicole squared her shoulders. “I'm making it my business. Francine's my friend.”

“Why, you littleâ” Ruling her female charges with a free hand, Mrs. Frye was quick to lash out if anyone got out of line. She raised a hand to slap Nicole's face.

“Mrs. Frye! Kindly desist, if you please,” Damon called.

Mrs. Frye restrained herself with some difficulty. “I don't take sass from tarts!”

“Your disciplinary zeal is well known, but in this case we might make an exception. Loyalty is such a rare virtue that I hate to discourage it.”

Damon rose, crossing to the rear of the building. He went to his office, opened the door, and stuck his head inside. “Francine, if you'd be good enough to step out here for a moment.”

Francine Hayes exited the office, stepping into view. White-blond hair framed a fine-featured, heart-shaped face. Dark blue eyes contrasted with her light hair and fair skin, making the orbs seem deeper and more alluring. She wore no face powder, lipstick or rouge; her clearcut features were vivid without cosmetics. A demure, blue-and-white checked gingham dress covered her from neck to ankles, though not concealing a high-breasted, slim-waisted physique.

“What is it, Damon?” she asked.

“Nicole's worried about you.”

Francine went to Nicole, putting her hands on Nicole's upper arms. “You're sweet.”

“Ain't you comin' with the rest of us?” Nicole asked.

“No, I'm staying here.”

“Why?”

“I don't want to bring any trouble down on Miz Bailey or you girls. You won't be bothered if I'm not with you.”

“Why should we be bothered?”

Francine smiled sadly. “Staffords are hard and unforgiving. They might take it out on anybody giving me shelter. I'll be safer here and the rest of you will be safer without me.”

“I'll stay with you,” Nicole declared.

“You'd just put yourself in danger. I don't want that.”

Nicole's agitation grew. “You're the only friend I got. I ain't gonna run out on you.”

“We'll take care of Francine,” Damon said. “You'd just be one more distraction, Nicole.”

“Please.”

“The longer you wait, the more danger you're putting all of us in. Francine most of all,” Mrs. Frye insisted.

“Please, Nicole, for my sake,” Francine urged.

Nicole nodded and blinked rapidly, her chin quivering. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Francine hugged her and kissed her cheek, then she and Mrs. Frye escorted Nicole through the passageway and out the back door.

Nicole joined the others. Swamper led them across the street, north up a side street, around a corner, and out of sight.

Francine and Mrs. Frye returned to the main floor. Mrs. Frye studied the other. “You all right, Francine?”

“Yes, Mrs. Frye. I'll be in my room.” Francine climbed the stairs to the second floor, crossing the balcony to a door, opening it and going inside.

Mrs. Frye cut a glance at Damon. He poured her a drink. She drank it. He went to the table, sat down, and resumed his card game.

Johnny Cross and Luke Pettigrew entered the Golden Spur.

“We're closed, gents,” Mrs. Frye said.

Luke gave her a big grin. “Aw, Miz Frye, after I done humped my way over here on my one good leg, you ain't gone send me away without one measly little old drink?”

“Save the blarney. You walked in, you can walk out,” she said.

Damon cleared his throat. “I think we can make an exception, Mrs. Frye. Belly up, gentlemen, and have one on the Spur.”

Luke beamed. “That's a go!”

“You're a gentleman, Damon,” Johnny said.

“Am I? How nice it would be to think so,” Damon said, returning to his card game.

Johnny and Luke made their way to the bar. “Howdy, Creed,” Luke said.

“Creed.” Johnny nodded to the other.

“Hey, y'all,” Creed Teece mumbled.

“How's it goin'?” Johnny asked.

“Can't complain,” Teece said. “You?”

“I'm getting along.”

Morrissey poured drinks for Johnny and Luke. They downed them, setting empty glasses on the countertop. Johnny slapped a coin down. “How about letting me buy one?”

“Why not?” Teece said. Morrissey poured three shots.

“Pour one for yourself,” Johnny said.

“Thankee,” the barkeep said, filling a fourth glass.

“How about you, Miz Frye?”

“I'll pass, cowboy. But I'll take the money.”

“Now, Mrs. Frye,” Damon chided.

“The way things are going today, we could use it. Well, all right, I can't say no.”

“I heard that about you,” Luke joked.

“No to a drink.”

“I heard that, too.”

She gave Luke a hard look. “Don't push your luck, hayseed.”

“What'll you have, Damon?” Johnny asked.