William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

SIXTEEN

The girl, June, was dead. Sometime during the chase into town, the rough ride caused the arrowhead to cut something vital and she’d bled to death. A stricken Mary Anderson and her sobbing twelve-year-old niece were taken in tow by some of the women of the church committee and escorted to a place of safety. At least, as safe as any in Hangtown.

But how safe could that be, Sam wondered, with Red Hand’s Comanches on the warpath within striking distance? He hoped he wouldn’t find out ... but he knew better.

Donahue picked up his traveling bag and took his sample cases out of the stagecoach’s rear boot. Desirous of getting stinking drunk, he went into the nearest saloon, which happened to be the Golden Spur. Quickly apprised that he had found no safe harbor due to the Stafford threat, he went down the street to the Alamo Bar.

It was closed. Donahue disappeared into the Cattleman Hotel.

Sam and Latigo sat at the front of the stagecoach. “Could be a reward from the stagecoach line for bringing in their property,” Sam mentioned. “If there is, we’ll split it. If not, we’ll sell the coach and horses and split the cash.”

That sounded good to Latigo, who moved the team out and to Hobson’s Livery Stable south of the jail.

Hobson had survived the raid intact and unharmed, as had his son and principal helper, a red-haired, freckle-faced kid. Hobson, a brawny titan who doubled as town blacksmith, wore a pair of holstered six-guns. He made arrangements to board the stagecoach team and the string of six horses. He asked no prying questions as Sam paid in hard cash, including something extra for the trouble of securing the coach.

He told Hobson what he’d seen on the plateau: burned-out ranches, slaughtered settlers, and the temporary camp of several hundred Comanches in Lago Gulch.

Hobson took the bad news with about as much excitement as if they were talking about the weather. He didn’t crack too much.

Sam broke down the rifle, unfastening long barrel and stock and fitting them in the gun case. In the close confines of town, with its crowded saloons and narrow alleys, the cut-down mule’s-leg was more convenient, faster to get into action.

He stuffed Black Robe’s talismanic garment into one of his saddlebag pouches, draped the saddlebags over his left shoulder, and hefted his gun case. Latigo took his own saddlebags and carbine, and they took leave of Hobson.

A hundred yards south of the stables, on the far side of a weedy dirt field, lay Mextown. A handful of bodies, some of settlement folk and others of Comanches, lay strewn about on the ground. White-clad residents milled around, armed with muskets, shotguns, machetes, axes, and such potentially lethal implements as scythes, sickles, and flat-bladed hoes.

“Let’s find the sheriff,” Sam said.

Latigo made a sour face. He had no great fondness for gringos, less for lawmen. But Señora Lorena had told him to stick close to Sam, so he duly fell into step alongside him.

They walked north to Trail Street. The jail was closed up tight, nobody home except for an inmate in one of the cells, who gripped the bars of a window with both hands and stuck his face between them, bawling for somebody to come let him out. He was unhurt and scared half sober.

There wasn’t anything Sam could do for him so he and Latigo moved on.

The sheriff wasn’t hard to find. He was standing on the front porch of the Cattleman Hotel, surrounded by a cluster of the town’s leading citizens, at least in their own estimation. A larger group of townfolk, mostly men but some women and children, were grouped in the street around the front of the hotel, facing Barton and the notables.

Now that the Comanches had been driven off, more people were emerging from behind bolted doors and shuttered windows to venture outside. Sam grinned wryly to himself. He was the bearer of ill tidings that, when they learned of it, would send most of them back running for cover.

Wanting to keep a low profile, Sam decided against bulling through the crowd and bracing the sheriff in public. Motioning to Latigo, he led him around behind the building to the back of the hotel. A waist-high white packet fence enclosed the backyard. They went through the gate and along a plank board pathway to the kitchen door. It was unlocked, opening into the kitchen. They walked through the kitchen and pushed open double swinging doors that accessed the main dining room, a large space filled with tables and chairs, but no diners. A half dozen white-aproned members of the kitchen staff, cooks, assistants and waiters, stood gathered under an archway, facing the front entrance.

Sam and Latigo came up behind them unnoticed. Sam put a hand on the shoulder of a waiter. The fellow started violently, giving a jolt to the other staff members alongside him.

“Easy,” Sam said, “if I was a Comanche, I’d’ve had your scalp already.”

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” the waiter said, frowning.

“Just passing through.” Sam and Latigo went under the archway, across a central hall and into a lobby filled with overstuffed furniture and potted plants the size of small trees. Leafy green fronds screened the sunlight pouring in from the front bay windows, softening it.

On the other side of the hallway, standing near the front entrance where he could observe Barton and company organizing the townfolk, was Lloyd Garvey, the desk clerk, a prematurely aged young man with permanently hunched rounded shoulders. It took something on the order of an Indian attack to flush Garvey out from behind the front desk, where he customarily held court, dispensing room keys and keeping the rest of the staff on their toes.

“W-why, Mr. Heller,” he said, catching sight of Sam, “what are you doing here?”

Sam didn’t much cotton to his own cooking and ate dinner at the Cattleman several nights a week. The desk clerk was in a position to know plenty about the hotel’s occupants and visitors, their comings and goings, and Sam’s peculiar trade thrived on such bits of timely intelligence. He kept Garvey plied with gratuities to keep him nice and pliable.

Sam opened his hand, a gold coin nestling in his palm. He held it so only Garvey could see it, and that briefly. because Garvey made it disappear with smooth, well-oiled skill that comes of much practice. “How may I be of service?” he asked brightly.

“I want a word with the sheriff.”

Garvey’s face fell. “I can’t interrupt him, I’m only the desk clerk.”

“Tell Barton that if he wants to have a town to be sheriff of, he’d better listen to what I’ve got to say.”

Garvey goggled, his eyes bulging, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Give it to him just like I said it. If he gets sore, he’ll be mad at me, not you, so you’ll be in the clear. Make sure you tell him so only he can hear it. We don’t want to go starting a panic.”

“Well—okay,” Garvey said, after much hemming and hawing. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and started forward on his errand.

Approaching Barton from the side, Garvey tugged at his sleeve. Startled at being interrupted by such a lackey, the sheriff could only assume the desk clerk had something worth hearing. “’Scuse me, folks.” Barton leaned toward Garvey, turning an ear to him.

Speaking behind his hand, Garvey passed along Sam’s words. Barton looked over his shoulder into the hotel. Sam gave him the high sign, motioning for Barton to come to him. The sheriff was a quick study. He blanked his expression, assuming a poker face before turning to face the buzzing crowd once more.

“Take over for a minute, Wade,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

“Huh? What? Wait a minute,” Hutto sputtered.

Barton entered the hotel, closing on Sam. Outside, Hutto had hold of Garvey’s lapel and was no doubt inquiring into the latest odd turn of events. A quick study himself, Hutto recovered and commenced speechifying to the citizens, plying them with soothing generalities.