William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

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 night—’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, Johnny—you 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.”

SIX

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 façade extended above the roofline, forming a broad, flat flare on which the name GOLDEN SPUR 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 territory—Cherokee, Nicole, Penny, Vangie, Daryah, and Kate—they 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.