Payback at Big Silver (3 page)

Sheriff Stone eyed the two men in their saddles. He recognized them both as he walked past them to where Sam sat atop the dun with his rifle across his lap. He noted the blood on Freddie Dobbs' shoulder, the missing shirtsleeve.

“Howdy, Ranger,” Stone said. He took the Ranger's dun by its bridle and held it as Sam swung down from his saddle. “Where'd you run into these two sidewinders?”

“They were riding with Bern Able, robbing mine payrolls,” said Sam. He nodded at the canvas bag of money tied down atop his saddlebags. “There's one bag from yesterday. There's a smaller one inside it from the other day.”

Stone looked at the two prisoners again, then back at Sam.

“I'm going to guess that Bern Able didn't take kindly to going to jail?” he queried.

“Yep, that's true,” Sam said. “Neither did Suarez. They're back there along the hill trail. I drug them off a ways.”

“Which one of the Suarez twins?” Stone asked, interested.

“Brandon, as far as I know,” Sam said. “That's what Able called him. But it could be Sanford. I can't tell the two apart.”

Stone nodded and looked around at the prisoners as if deciding whether or not Sanford “Sandy” Suarez would ride with these two.

“Sandy being a noted gunman, he might hold himself above the likes of this crowbait.”

“Take these cuffs off me, you drunken pig,” Boomer Phipps growled. “I'll show you
crowbait
.” He jerked and strained his thick wrists against the handcuffs.

“That's enough of that, Boomer,” Sam said. “Both of you get down and get inside.” He looked at Stone. “Freddie's got a bullet in him that needs to be cut out.”

Stone gave him a look.

“I didn't shoot him,” Sam said. “Suarez's gun went off and nailed him before he died.”

“Just my luck I caught the bullet with my shoulder,” Dobbs said in a bitter tone. He and Boomer stepped down and stood beside their horses at the hitch rail.

“My offer still stands, Sheriff
Whiskey-head
,” Boomer Phipps taunted. “Take these cuffs off and I'll clean this street with your hide.” He rattled the cuffs on his wrists.

Sam saw Stone start to take a step toward the big outlaw. But the seasoned lawman caught himself and took a deep breath.

“I'll send for the doctor,” Stone said quietly, ignoring Boomer's threat. He raised a hand and waved in a young man as the two prisoners stood looking the town over. Townsfolk had started looking toward the sheriff's office curiously.

When Stone had sent the young boy hurrying off to the doctor's residence, he and Sam ushered the two prisoners inside the sheriff's office.

“How've you been, Sheriff?” Sam asked, seeing a sour look come over Stone's face as he gazed off through the window at the new saloon sign.

“Have I been staying sober, is what you're wanting to ask me, Ranger?” Stone said.

“If I wanted to ask you that, I would have,” Sam said. He looked Stone up and down. “Something bothering you, Sheriff?” he asked, his tone no less bristly than the sheriff's.

Stone let out a breath.

“Pay me no mind, Ranger,” he said. “I've been high-strung as a tomcat all day.” He gestured out the front window in the direction of the saloon. “We get these yahoos locked up, I'll tell you all about it.”

In a cell inside the sheriff's office, a former army surgeon named Dr. Morris Tierney had laid out his surgical instruments on a small table the sheriff brought in and set up for him beside Dobbs' bunk. Dobbs swallowed a lump in his throat and kept quiet, looking at the sharp cutting tools. After a quick inventory of his instruments the doctor poured a few drops of chloroform onto a folded cloth and pressed it over Freddie Dobbs' nose and mouth. Boomer Phipps watched closely from an adjoining cell. Sheriff Stone and the Ranger watched from outside the cell until they were certain Dobbs was unconscious. As the doctor picked up and inspected the edge and point on a thin scalpel, Stone nodded toward the boardwalk and the two lawmen turned and walked out the front door. Noting the tremor in Stone's hands, Sam looked him up and down as the sheriff fished a bag of tobacco from his shirt pocket and begin to roll himself a smoke.

“It's nothing, Ranger,” Stone said, his hands settling a little as he smoothed a rolling paper and formed it in his fingers. “I'm used to pulling a cork after jailing a couple of hard cases. Riding dry takes some getting used to.” He bit the edge of the cloth drawstring tobacco pouch and pulled it open. “I'd be lying if I said I don't miss it.”

“I understand,” Sam said, still checking the steadiness of Stone's hands, especially his right—his gun hand. He watched Stone sprinkle tobacco back and forth along the white paper cradle.

“But I'm done with it,” Stone said, glancing up at him. He bit one of the strings atop the pouch, drew the pouch shut and dropped it back into his pocket. “It made a fool of me long enough. It ain't so much the whiskey that's got me shaky,” he added. “Seems like I'm living on strong coffee and rock candy.” He paused and ran his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper. “But this will all pass. . . .”

“I'm glad it's going good for you, Sheriff,” Sam said. “What about that other thing you were having trouble with?”

“What? Oh, you mean thinking I was turning into a wolf?” Stone said.

“Yeah, that,” Sam said.

Stone shrugged; he ran the cigarette in and out of his mouth and gave either end a slight twist.

“I'm done with that too,” he said. “I don't know what come over me, but it's over now. The more sober I get, the more loco all that sounds.”

Sam just looked at him, a little skeptical.

“Trust me—it's over, Ranger,” Stone said with a tired grin. He held out a hand. “Want to shake my paw on it?”

Sam still stared, stoically.

“Easy, Ranger, I'm just joshing. Don't laugh yourself into madness,” said Stone. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and searched himself for a match.

Sam gave a trace of a smile.

“I thought it might be a joke,” he said. He watched Stone light the cigarette, take a draw and blow it out. “What about the situation with the judge?”

“It's all clear,” said Stone. “I explained everything that's been going on—told him about the twenty thousand dollars Centrila passed along for me to give to him. He believes I wasn't going to keep it. Had me send the bribe money to him by rail express, soon as I got back here from Yuma. He's investigating the matter, seeing if he can charge Centrila with attempted bribery and make it stick.”

“I wouldn't let my hopes get too high, Sheriff,” Sam cautioned him. “It's getting to where rich men don't go to jail, they go to lawyers.”

“I know that,” Stone said. “I just did my part. The rest is up to the judge. At least Centrila didn't get his son, Harper, out of prison. That shows that the law still works,
some
anyway.”

“That's the only way we can look at it,” Sam offered.

“Speaking of Centrila,” Stone said, nodding toward the new sign above the saloon. “He now owns two of Silver's
three
drinking and gambling establishments.”

“Gave up the cattle business for gambling establishments?” Sam speculated, taking in the new sign, seeing the men gathered out in front of the Silver Palace.

“He's not fooling me,” Stone said. “He ain't giving up cattle, not for long anyway. He's got an ax to grind with me. I figure he's going to wait his chance and have me killed. He's got the gunmen to do it, and there's no better place to get a lawman shot down than in a crowded saloon.” He inspected the front of the Silver Palace as if seeing the place where his fate would someday unfold.

“Say the word,” said Sam. “We'll both go jerk a knot in his tail. Maybe he'll back off.”

“Ha,” said Stone. “He's nowhere around. We both know that a snake like Edsel Centrila wouldn't be caught within a hundred miles of a man he had killed.” He nodded at three well-dressed horsemen moving up to the Palace's hitch rail at a walk. “You ever heard of Silas Rudabaugh?”

Sam gazed at the three riders, seeing them stare back at him and Stone.

“Rudabaugh the stock detective,” Sam said, calling upon his memory for the gunman. “Heard of him, never had cause to meet him.” He watched as a short, frail-looking Mexican woman walked purposefully toward the three gunmen, cursing them as they stepped down from their horses.

“You're getting ready to,” Stone said, “unless you prefer to watch from here.”

“Watch what?” the Ranger asked.

“This!” said Stone. As he spoke, he and Sam both saw the Mexican woman swing a shotgun up from under her black shawl and aim it at the three gunmen. “No, Mama Belleza!” Stone shouted loudly as he broke forward in a run, his hand on his holstered Colt. “Lower that scattergun
right now
!”

Sam ran alongside him. He sensed that Stone's concern was more for the woman than the three men.

The woman swung toward Stone and the Ranger as the three gunmen stood facing her from fifty feet. Seeing the sheriff, the woman lowered the shotgun just as she pulled both the triggers and sent an upsurge of dirt exploding into the air ten feet in front of her. The impact of both barrels firing sent her staggering backward. But she managed to catch herself and stay on her feet. She threw her bony hands up in surrender. The shotgun fell to the ground. The three gunmen laughed aloud. One of them lowered a shiny Remington back down into its holster.

“I do not shoot at you, Sheriff!” she shouted in a tearful voice. “I shoot at this pig.” She jerked her head toward the middle gunman, who stood watching with a stylish charcoal gray coachman's hat cocked jauntily to one side of his head. He clenched a thin cigar in his teeth. A long gold watch chain looped down from his vest pocket.

“Easy does it,” he whispered to the other two gunmen. “She's not worth a bullet.” His black-gloved hand rested on the butt of a big Colt standing in a cross-draw holster, the lapel of his black riding duster pulled open behind it.

Stone slid to a halt and took both the old Mexican woman's hands in his and held her.

“You can't be doing this, Mama Belleza,” he said, keeping his voice lowered. “You're lucky they didn't kill you.”

The elderly woman paid no attention to his warning.

“Who is this one?” she asked, eying the Ranger.

“He's Ranger Sam Burrack, Mama,” Stone said quickly. “He's here on business.” He turned toward Sam with her. The three gunmen watched, wearing smug grins. “Ranger, this is Mama Belleza. She owns the Hermosa Cantina.”

“Pleased, ma'am,” Sam said. He kept watch on the three gunmen as he touched the brim of his sombrero toward the frail elderly woman.

“Let's get you out of the street, Mama,” Sheriff Stone said. Slipping an arm around her thin waist, he started to usher her toward her run-down cantina a block away. The Ranger walked over and picked up the smoking shotgun lying in the dirt. He broke the gun open and hung it over his forearm.

“Whoa there, Sheriff, what's your hurry?” the man in the coachman's hat called out. “Aren't you going to ask if I want this woman arrested? She
did
come here to kill me.”

“I'm taking her home, Rudabaugh. Come to my office if you want to bring charges,” Stone said. He turned and walked away with the frail woman against his side. Sam stood in the street facing the three men, covering the sheriff's back.

“What's this?
Ranger Burrack
must think we're all three back-shooters,” said one of the gunmen. This one wore a black bowler and long matching duster.

The Ranger looked closer at the man speaking.

“
Dirty
Donald Ferry . . . ,” he said, recognizing the man.

The man spread his arms and gave a stiff smile.

“Maybe then, but do I look
dirty
now, Ranger?” he said.

“The name always lent itself more to your character than your personal hygiene, Donald,” Sam replied. As he spoke he raised the empty shotgun from over his forearm, snapped it shut and started walking forward. “Who are your pals?” He looked the other two men up and down.

“See what the Ranger's doing right now?” said Ferry instead of answering Sam. “He's getting in close with that shotgun so's he can crack somebody in the jaw with the butt of it.” He grinned. “But it ain't going to happen this time like it did before.”

Sam stopped two steps farther back than he'd intended to and looked down at the shotgun in his hand as if he hadn't realized he was carrying it.

“You feel better if I stop back here, Donald?” he said. “I don't want to make you turn pale and nervous.”

“You're not making me one
damn bit nervous
, Ranger,” Ferry said. His face reddened; he took two short threatening steps forward and stood glaring at the Ranger. “Without your
element of surprise
, you ain't so damn—”

He stopped short as the shotgun butt stabbed him hard in the middle of his chest just below where his ribs met. Breath and spittle flew from his mouth. He jackknifed and stood bowed deep at the waist, his hands clutching his solar plexus. The Ranger sidestepped, reached out and grabbed Ferry's Remington from its holster in one slick professional move and pitched it away. The other two gunmen had already grasped their revolvers, but upon seeing the Ranger toss the Remington into the dirt, they kept themselves in check and stood staring. The Ranger grabbed the back of Ferry's shirt collar and raised the gasping gunman up and down at the waist as if operating a pump handle.

“That's it, Ferry. Breathe deep,” he said calmly.

“Jesus, he walked right into that,” said Rudabaugh, giving Ferry a look of contempt.

“I saw it coming,” said the other man, unimpressed.

Sam straightened Ferry onto his feet and steadied him a little.

“There, you're doing fine,” he said encouragingly. He patted Ferry's bowed back. Ferry gasped and wheezed.

“I'll ki-kill you,” he managed to say in a strained, weakened voice.

“Let it go, Ferry, he got you,” Rudabaugh cut in sharply. He said to the Ranger, “I'm Silas Rudabaugh, Ranger.” He raised his hand from the butt of his Colt and gestured it toward the third man, a stout man with a thin mustache who wore a wide-brimmed hat with a flat crown. “This is Clayton Boyle. We've both heard of you.” With that he let his hand fall to his side, away from his holstered Colt. “You wield a wicked shotgun.” He nodded at the bowed gunman with a string of spittle hanging down from his lips. “I'll remind Donald that you could have done much worse, had you a mind to.”

“I know Dirty Donald,” Sam said. “He was stoking himself into pulling that Remmy on me. I figured it better to stop him before he went too far.” As he spoke he picked up the shiny gun, wiped it off and handed it to Clayton Boyle. The serious-looking gunman stuck it down into his waist.

“Are you here to back the sheriff's play?” Boyle asked in a blunt tone.

Sam stared at him.

“What
play
is that?” he asked coolly, with a fixed stare.

“Typical lawman,” Rudabaugh cut in quickly as if to change the subject. “No offense, but do all you lawmen answer a question with a
question
?”

“Do we?” Sam said flatly. Hearing Donald Ferry breathing a little steadier beside him, he touched the brim of his sombrero and took a step back. He caught a glimpse of Stone walking out into the street, facing his direction, a raised rifle in hand.

“We're not out to break any laws here,” Rudabaugh called out.

“We're here overseeing things—making sure things go smooth for Edsel Centrila with his new businesses,” Boyle added. Beside them, Donald Ferry straightened some more and wiped a sleeve across his mouth. He reached out toward Boyle, one hand still clasped to his aching chest.

“Give me . . . my gun . . . I'll kill him,” he rasped.

“Lower your hand,
Dirty
Donald,” said Boyle, “or I'll kill you myself.”

•   •   •

Stone turned on the street and walked alongside the Ranger to the faded, run-down Hermosa Cantina. Inside the cantina the Ranger handed the empty shotgun sidelong to an elderly bartender, who broke the gun open and walked it behind an ornate but faded tile bar. Stone tapped his fingers nervously on the rifle in his hand and adjusted a sweet cough drop in his mouth.