Wichita Town Tamer Page 8

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bite of the Wolf

  Cal was trying to catch up on some paperwork in the office when a knock disturbed the necessary but laborious endeavour. Keeping track of the numerous duties with which a law officer was tasked these days was becoming decidedly irksome. He hadn’t signed up to be a pen-pusher. Trial lawyers especially were assiduous in their demands for written evidence.

  Browny Jagus was a case in point. His trial was coming up soon. It would have been a sight easier if’n he had just aimed for a killing shot. Far less paperwork and no repercussions. Those prophetic words were to haunt him in the very near future.

  Wyoming Bill and his two buddies had been buried in unconsecrated ground the same day of the shooting with only death certificates to sign. An open and shut case witnessed by numerous onlookers. Candy Flowers, however, was a different matter. Cal still had to interview Adele for her side of the incident, which didn’t bode well for his involvement in the affair. Mayor Wishart was pressing him to obtain a written testimony as she was threatening to leave town.

  He had been deliberately putting it off. Not least because Adele refused to see him. Why did life have to be so complicated? Cleaning up rough mining camps had posed far fewer problems.

  ‘Come in,’ the marshal called out, thankful for the rest that his overtaxed brain needed. He threw down the quill pen mouthing an impulsive curse as an ink blot spattered across the accounts ledger. ‘Darn it!’

  ‘You don’t seem in good spirits, Marshal,’ remarked the visitor. Nightjar the stable hand was nervously fingering his hat. ‘That’s kind of a pity as I ain’t the bringer of good news.’

  Cal eyed the hovering ostler askance. ‘Best spill it then, Nightjar,’ he sighed. ‘Life don’t seem to be getting any easier these days.’

  ‘A mean looking dude just grabbed me outside the National,’ the little guy burbled, deeming it wise not to ask for a snort on this occasion. ‘He had the look of that Browny Jagus you’re holding for trial.’ Nightjar swallowed before continuing. This was the time when he could have murdered a shot of the hard stuff. ‘Said he’d be waiting for you in the Prairie Dog. The guy didn’t give me a name. But he held up his right hand and said you’d know.’

  Again Cal’s furrowed brow registered incomprehension. ‘Quit playing games, fella, and just tell me,’ came the snappy riposte.

  Another gulp. Nightjar’s Adam’s apple wobbled. ‘His little finger is missing.’

  The lawman gripped the chair rests; his bottom lip fell as the incident at Coal Bank Pass flashed across his mind’s eye. A couple of years had passed but the ambush by the gunslinger known as Lobo was still clear as daylight. The varmint must have done his time or escaped and come looking to get even.

  Then another thought occurred to the canny lawman. Could he possibly have been hired by Meek and his cronies? They had left him in no doubt that he was the one obstacle thwarting their devious plan to take over Wichita. A narrowed gaze fastened onto the line of wanted dodgers. Lobo was not among them. The guy had somehow managed to keep one step ahead of any illicit conflict with the law.

  Nightjar picked up on the starman’s disquiet. ‘You know this guy, Marshal?’

  ‘We’ve had dealings,’ was all he was prepared to divulge. ‘Best you keep out of it,’ he added standing up and reaching for his gun belt. Next he selected a sawn-off scatter gun slotting two cartridges into the twin barrels of the deadly weapon. There was nothing like being prepared when facing a gunslinger of Lobo’s reputation.

  Nightjar watched as the hard-boiled lawdog stepped out onto the veranda and began his walk of destiny. It was Saturday. The one day in the week when the sound of revelry ought to be pulsating from every saloon. Yet a sinister quiet had engulfed the town. And it was not merely on account of the strict regulations he had imposed.

  News regarding a showdown of this magnitude must have preceded the event itself. It was like a magnet drawing in those of a macabre disposition, ghoulish death seekers who relished the sight of blood being spilled, just so long as it belonged to someone else. Wichita was still not short of such denizens.

  Curious eyes followed the marshal as he slowly made his way along the street towards the Prairie Dog on the far side. He crossed over, sensing the presence of his silent audience. It felt like he was entering the Coliseum of ancient Rome, a gladiator fighting to the death for the enjoyment of the crowd.

  Sure, he could walk away. The thought of his wife made his step falter. She had threatened to leave on account of his job, and all the baggage it entailed. But his well-deserved standing as a fearless town tamer would then be forfeited. The name of Bear River Cal Bonner would be dragged through the mud, scoffed at in a myriad of saloons from Sadalia down to the Red River. If he was going to surrender his job, then it would be on his terms. Not those of some arrogant hired gunslinger.

  His back stiffened with resolve as he paused outside the saloon. Tension you could cut with a knife hung in the air. He sucked in a deep breath. Before he could open the door a hand was laid on his shoulder.

  ‘Nightjar told me about this gunslinger calling you out. You don’t have to do this, Cal.’ It was Doc Bailey. ‘The town would understand.’

  The medic’s entreaty received a sardonic twist of the lip. ‘Would it, Doc? You sure about that? ’Cos I ain’t. Turn away now and I’m finished. That’s the way it goes in this game. You’re only as good as your last face-off.’

  He didn’t wait for a reaction. Pushing the door open he stepped through into what felt like the jaws of death. The room was full of muttering drinkers. All now turned, looking towards the newcomer standing by the door. The babble faded to a morbid silence. Everyone was fully aware of the imminent confrontation.

  Cal returned their gloomy if expectant regard. It was clear that other drinkers whose usual haunts were elsewhere had come to the Prairie Dog in anticipation of a shoot-out. Would their morbid curiosity be assuaged? The next few minutes would decide the issue, one way or another.

  Then, just like in the Bible when the waters of the Red Sea parted, the milling throng shifted leaving an empty strip of bare wood down the centre of the room.

  And there leaning casually on the empty bar at the far end was the wolf man – Solitario Lobo. His teeth were drawn back in a manic rictus. ‘Glad you could make it, Marshal,’ he spat out. ‘These guys are just itching to see how a wolf can pull a bear’s teeth.’ A manic chuckle echoed around the room. Nobody else joined in. The audience pushed back, eager to keep well out the line of fire that they knew was sure to come.

  ‘Carrying guns within the town limits is banned, Lobo,’ the lawman declared, resolutely keeping any quiver out of his utterance. ‘Hand them over and we’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘I kinda feel a mite naked without them,’ the hired gunman heedlessly replied, taking a sip of his whisky. ‘Guess you’ll have to come and take them. That is if’n you’re able. Other tinstars have tried. Wanna guess where they ended up?’

  ‘Same place you’re headed if’n you don’t surrender them hoglegs,’ Cal shot back. ‘The graveyard’s full of big shots like you.’

  ‘I’m different. You see, Mr Town Tamer, I have an axe to grind.’ Lobo held up his four-digit hand while lighting a cigar. The crowd gasped causing the atmosphere in the saloon to palpably ratchet up a notch. ‘As well as this, you’re holding my brother in that jailhouse. So it’s not only for the money this time.’

  Lobo set down his glass and levered himself off the bar. In the flick of a rattler’s tongue, his right hand moved. Twice, flame and hot lead spat from the barrel of his Manhattan ’36. The ear-splitting discharge blended into a single roar, such was the speed of the slick manoeuvre. Lobo had been practising a while for this very moment. He knew that Cal Bonner was no slouch with a pistol so had no intention of offering him the chance to prove it. That was for suckers.

  Black powder smoke mingled with that of tobacco and tallow oil. A collective intake of breath went up from the wa
tching crowd, all eager to witness the result of the showdown. Lobo already knew the outcome. He stumped down the middle of the room and stood over the fallen body of his adversary. A caustic eye checked out the accuracy of his discharge. Satisfaction in the form of a grim smile washed over the brutish features as he peered down at the still form on the floor.

  Both slugs had lodged in the victim’s chest.

  Just to ensure there had been no mistake in his aim, Lobo stamped down hard on Cal Bonner’s gun hand. ‘Only a fool gives his opponent an even break,’ he snarled out. ‘Too bad you never learned that lesson, Marshal.’ The crack of bone sent shivers of dread through those watching. Lobo merely smiled. It was more akin to a wolf’s snarl. The recipient of the malicious piece of brutality never moved a muscle.

  ‘That’s just in case you figured on playing possum.’ Following this callous reasoning behind the vicious act, the killer’s gun rose to deliver the fatal denouement.

  Before he had chance to pull the trigger, Doc Bailey hustled though the door and bent down to examine the still form. ‘Stay back and let me examine him,’ he ordered, placing his own body between the killer and his victim. The medic’s surprising arrival and brusque command momentarily threw the gunslinger. He moved aside allowing the sawbones to have his way.

  ‘No need for any more of that,’ Bailey rasped out moments later following a brisk examination of the victim. Slowly he stood up. The look he gave the hunched killer was chock full of acrimony. ‘This man won’t be causing you any more problems. So you can put that gun away.’

  Bailey quickly glanced around, his probing gaze searching for a friendly face. Only blank looks stared back at him. The kind of men who fraternized a berg like the Prairie Dog had no love for a lawman that banned the carrying of guns and curtailed their merriment. Then his eyes lit upon a man standing open-mouthed by the door.

  ‘Help me get the marshal’s body outside,’ he said to the stunned ostler. Nightjar just stood there, transfixed by the sight of the marshal’s bleeding corpse. ‘Hurry up, man!’ the doctor pressed. ‘Is your wagon nearby?’

  The blunt demand brought the stableman back to life. ‘Over th-there,’ he stuttered out. ‘I was only talking to the poor guy not ten minutes since. I warned him about this fella asking after him. . . .’

  ‘Just help me get him into the wagon,’ the sawbones butted in. ‘And quickly, I need to get him over to the undertaker.’

  Before any ghoulish onlookers in the saloon could move to examine the body more closely, the two men hurriedly carried it outside. Bailey jumped up beside the ostler on the bench seat and urged him off up the street. ‘Once we’re out of sight, head for my surgery,’ he ordered the driver.

  Nightjar gave the order a quizzical frown. Why not the undertaker’s? That was the place for a corpse. But he held his peace. Doc Bailey knew what he was doing. Curiosity, however, won him over once the marshal had been laid down on a bed in the surgical ward. ‘What gives, Doc?’ he asked, scratching his head. ‘Why did you bring him here?’

  Even though he was safely ensconced within his own domain, Doc Bailey automatically lowered his voice. ‘Can I trust you, Nightjar?’ he asked pointedly.

  ‘Of course you can, Doc,’ the ostler replied. ‘I’ve always had a high regard for the marshal. He made this town fit for decent folks to live in. I shudder to think what’ll happen now he’s dead.’

  Bailey’s voice sank even lower such that Nightjar strained to listen in. ‘That’s the whole point of this charade. He ain’t dead at all. Not yet anyway. Those bullets have lodged in his ribs. Although another half inch and he would have been a goner. So you see, I couldn’t allow that darned gunslinger to finish the job.’

  Nightjar’s mouth dropped open in amazement. He stared hard at the blood-stained form splayed out on the bed. ‘He sure looks dead,’ the sceptical guy declared shaking his head. ‘His chest ain’t moving. He has to be dead.’

  The medic waved a languid hand. ‘That’s due to shock. His heart has slowed down so that it looks like he’s dead. And he will be for certain if’n I don’t get to work on him soon.’

  Nightjar could only stare back in wonder. He was just a simple guy trying to earn a living. This was beyond his understanding.

  The doctor hurried on with his brief explanation. ‘Luckily nobody else in the Prairie Dog had the balls to challenge my judgment. Only through luck and you being in the right place at the right time was I able to spirit him away from that plague of locusts.’ The medic grabbed the old dude firmly by the arm. ‘You won’t say anything, will you? This has to remain our secret.’

  Even though the stableman was no churchgoer, he crossed himself. ‘As God is my witness, you have my word on it, Doc.’ He passed a hand over tightly compressed lips. ‘Silence is golden.’

  The medic emitted a deep sigh of relief. ‘But he can’t stay here. It’s fortunate that today is my nurse’s day off. But she’ll be in tomorrow. And I don’t want to answer any awkward questions. The fewer people that know about this the better. He’s badly hurt and his mashed hand needs attention as well. I’m just praying that he ain’t too far gone. It’s gonna be touch and go. But if’n he does pull through, he’ll need somewhere to rest up during his recovery. Any ideas?’

  Nightjar considered the request carefully before voicing his opinion.

  ‘There is a place I know of that ain’t visited anymore.’

  ‘Where is it?’ The medic was all ears now.

  ‘An old buffalo hunter called Skinny Jim Flint built a cabin in Dead Man’s Draw north of town. That was when the plains around here were swarming with buffalo. A couple of years back he moved further west along with them migrating woollie-backs. So the place is empty now. We could hide him there.’ The ostler was becoming quite enthused by the project. ‘I could easily bring in supplies and keep a regular check on his progress once you’ve seen to the medical side of things.’

  ‘A rather unfortunate choice of name perhaps,’ remarked the morose doctor.

  ‘Gee. I never thought about that, Doc,’ Nightjar apologized. ‘You reckon I should look for someplace else?’

  Bailey shook his head. ‘No time for that now. We can only trust in the Good Lord that my skill is sufficient to make it a false omen in the marshal’s case. So I suggest you get out there fast and make sure it’s fit for the patient to recuperate until he’s ready to show his hand. And don’t worry about the cost. I’ll pay for everything you need and get the money back off the council later.’ Already, the doctor had shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. There was much to be done if he was to save Cal Bonner’s life. ‘And make sure nobody suspects what you’re up to.’

  ‘I’ll get out there right away,’ opined Nightjar. But the sawbones merely responded with a wave of the hand. His whole attention was now focussed on making sure that the badly injured lawman did not peg out.

  Already he had lost a lot of blood, his breathing was shallow and laboured. For the next couple of hours the doctor conjured up all his experience and knowledge of gunshot wounds and bone-setting to tend the injured man. By the end, he was totally exhausted. ‘I’m too darned long in the tooth for this kind of work,’ he muttered to himself while cleaning up. A look of resignation creased the world-weary face. ‘You’re out of my hands now, fella.’ His face lifted towards the ceiling. ‘Only you, Lord, can decide whether I’ve done enough.’

  A liberal shot of brandy coursed through the medic’s frail body. ‘Reckon I’ve earned this whatever happens.’ It certainly helped to revive his wilting stamina. There still remained the onerous task of transporting the fragile patient to Dead Man’s Draw. A buggy was waiting out back. Already, the celebrations could be heard further along Kingman.

  The sawbones scowled. Those critters would be so taken up with their newfound freedom they would forget all about Cal Bonner. This was the best time to head out of town on a back trail. It was lucky that Nightjar had just returned having cleaned up the cabin ready for a hopefully short-lived oc
cupation. Without a second pair of hands, the little doctor would have found it impossible to move the burly lawman on his ownsome.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wide Open

  ‘Drinks are on the house, boys,’ declared a delighted Cody Meek, slapping Lobo on the back. ‘And it’s all because of my new partner here.’ A raucous belt of loud cheering greeted this most welcome announcement. ‘And don’t forget to tell all of your buddies who ain’t here that Wichita is once again open for business.’

  Eager drinkers surged across to the bar forcing Meek to go behind himself to help the bartenders cope with demand. But he harboured no reluctance. This was a moment to be celebrated.

  Lobo helped himself to a bottle of best Scotch. He was more than willing to answer a myriad of queries regarding his prowess in gunplay, even demonstrating a few tricks that had his audience enthralled and gasping with delight. Once the initial sense of euphoria had settled down, he left his new partners busily stoking up support for their takeover bid and made his way across to the jailhouse. The door was wide open. And with nobody in attendance, he walked straight in and over to the cellblock.

  ‘What’s all that shooting, Bonner? I thought you had this town locked down tighter than a bank vault.’ The sight of his brother in the doorway stunned the prisoner into silence. He was totally lost for words. ‘Miguel! It cannot be! Where’s Bonner?’ he spluttered out. ‘Has the skunk caught up with you as well?’

  He looked behind his brother fully expecting to see the marshal prodding him into the cell block. Lobo’s swarthy face split in a wide grin as he held up a large ring containing the bunch of keys. ‘Which one fits your lock? And no, it is no ghost you are seeing. I, Miguel Valdez am now marshal of Wichita. And you, mi hermano, are going to be my deputy.’

  Chico slumped down on the dirty bunk bed. His head was spinning. ‘I think you had better tell me what’s happened to deliver such a miracle,’ he spluttered, still barely able to credit that he was free.