Wichita Town Tamer Page 9

  The selected key grated in the lock allowing the prisoner to leave the cell. They sat down in the main office while Lobo brought his brother up to date with recent events. He then moved across to the scarred desk and searched the drawers.

  ‘I’ll get you a room at the hotel.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘And some fresh duds to go with your new-found status. You smell too much like a dung heap. But first. . .’ The search continued until his fingers lit upon a shiny metal star with the depiction ‘Deputy’ engraved thereon. ‘Pin that on your vest and raise your right hand. Now say after me.’ Chico did as ordered. ‘I, Chico Valdez, better known as Browny Jagus, do hereby agree to support my brother Miguel, better known as Lobo, in the pursuit of wealth and all its trappings here in the town of Wichita.’

  ‘Chico Valdez will be greatly honoured to assist his fine brother in such an excelente venture,’ Jagus espoused after repeating the avowal. ‘So Bonner is dead. And we are now in charge of law and order. I like it.’ They celebrated with a couple of shots from the bottle left by the alleged dead man. ‘He sure ain’t gonna miss it. Here’s to you, ex-Marshal Bonner, deceased and now stoking the Devil’s furnace.’

  Glasses were raised followed by hearty guffaws in celebration of this most welcome of outcomes.

  ‘One minute I’m awaiting trial for attempted murder, the next helping to run this town. Life cannot get much better.’ Jagus could still barely accept the sudden change in his fortunes. Lady Luck was certainly sitting on his shoulder this day.

  After finishing the bottle of bourbon, the self-appointed law officers headed off down the street to the National Hotel. Along the entire length of Kingman, men were whooping and a-hollering. Guns were being fired off into the air. The news that Wichita was once again open for business had spread like wildfire. Even the local mutts got caught up in the jubilation, barking and chasing one another.

  Perry Blaine had just emerged from the Prairie Dog. He spotted the two brothers and called across. ‘Mind if’n I have a few words with you fellas?’ The two men waited for him to cross the street. ‘Reckon you must be mighty pleased that your brother decided to take us up on the offer of a partnership, Browny,’ he said in feigned innocence, not batting an eyelid. Lobo smirked but made no comment. The impresario held out a hand, which Jagus accepted. ‘I’m Perry Blaine. I run the Crystal Chandelier over yonder.’

  ‘It was indeed an agreeable surprise to get my release from the new marshal of Wichita,’ Jagus replied casually. ‘What do you have in mind to fill our pockets with all that lovely dinero, señor?’

  ‘Have the rest of the day to settle into your new roles, boys,’ Blaine declared officiously to let these jaspers know exactly who was running this show. ‘First thing in the morning we need to start persuading the other saloon owners that it will be in their best interests to sell up to Cody and me. You boys will be our muscle. Once the word gets passed around, Wichita will be buzzing with cowboys eager to spend their dough in our gambling joints.’

  He left the two Valdez boys, a phony smile pasted across the unctuous kisser. Haughty arrogance oozed from every orifice. Although he would have denied the accusation, it was clear that greasers, half breeds and Indians would not be on the invitation list to his forthcoming nuptials. For that was Perry Blaine’s next destination. Now that the obstacle to his quest for the hand of Tilly Dumont had been removed, the lady in question had no reason to stall him any further.

  The gaze of the two missing names from the anticipated celebration followed him down the street, scornful arrows of disdain spearing his back. ‘That gringo is one jumped-up turkey, Miguel,’ Chico growled out, his fists bunching in irritation.

  ‘Have patience, hermano,’ Miguel counselled, playfully tapping his brother’s shoulder. ‘All in good time. Once things are running smoothly, then we will turn the tables on these pumped-up roosters.’

  The meeting next day took place in Cody Meek’s office. Meek himself explained in detail how the other business establishments were going to be ‘encouraged’ to make the right decision. Sly smirks broadened into beaming grins as the plan was divulged.

  First visitation on the wanted list was the Drovers’ House. Wishbone Adderley was on the town council and a buddy of the allegedly deceased marshal. He did not employ any hard-assed minders to keep the punters in line. There was no need. Adderley had signed a temperance decree the previous year. It was pinned up behind the bar for all to see.

  Alcoholic beverages were not on the menu. Coffee and sarsaparilla were the strongest drinks on offer.

  ‘This will be a piece of cake, boys,’ Meek instructed his entourage which comprised his two partners together with Browny Jagus and two other hard-boiled toughs on the payroll. ‘If’n Adderley foolishly refuses to sign over his holding, the others will soon toe the line when they hear what happens to troublemakers.’

  The six men had moved down into the bar of the Prairie Dog and were enjoying a final drink before setting off. The downcast look on Perry Blaine’s face was not what Meek expected from his partner.

  ‘What’s eating you?’ Meek snapped out. ‘You ought be straining at the leash to get all these lunkheads dancing to our tune.’

  ‘It’s Tilly. She’s turned me down again.’ Blaine was totally bewildered by the singer’s rejection. ‘What’s wrong with that dame? I thought she loved me. Can’t she see a good deal when it’s staring her in the face?’

  The uncomfortable confession elicited a barely controlled chuckle from Meek. ‘Don’t take it too badly,’ he chided his partner. ‘That dame is still grieving over her lost love. Once she sees all that dough you’ll be making, she’ll soon come round. They always do. Take my word for it. Ain’t that so, boys?’

  ‘Sure is, partner,’ Lobo concurred, lighting up a cigar. He liked the sound of being able to call someone that. ‘But love don’t come into it. Señoritas always like the good things in life. And the hombre who gives them those good things can always call the shots.’

  Blaine was wriggling in his seat. He hated the thought of having his innermost feelings discussed in public, especially by a damned half-breed. He pushed his chair back. ‘Let’s get this show on the road then,’ he rasped, trying to shrug off his discomfiture.

  The only person in the Drovers’ House when the deputation arrived was Jimmy Juniper. ‘Beat it, kid,’ snarled a young tough called Billy Joe Crabtree. ‘We have private business with the boss.’

  Jimmy looked to the man standing behind the counter for instructions. ‘Do like the man says, kid. I’ll handle this.’

  Somewhat reluctantly the boy sidled outside. But he was not happy. This did not look like a friendly visit. So he hung around outside.

  Unfortunately, the window curtain rail was too high for a short dude like him to see over. He would have to try listening in to what was under discussion. But even that was to be denied him. The other hard ass known simply as Stonewall stumped across and slammed the door shut.

  It was Cody Meek who had delegated himself to do all the talking. And he got straight down to business. An official looking piece of thick parchment was slapped down on the counter. It was all elegant scroll-writing complete with the red seal of approval from a friendly lawyer who was being well paid for his work.

  ‘What’s this?’ Adderley snapped, peering down at the document.

  ‘A bill of transfer for these premises to the Wichita Land Holding Commission,’ Meek announced, holding the other man’s gaze. ‘And you can see that we’re prepared to offer a suitable remuneration for your co-operation.’ He pushed the document forward, his tone of voice adopting a brittle rasp. ‘Now sign it!’

  Adderley looked at the piece of paper, then up at the grim looking delegation. ‘And what if’n I don’t want to sell up? The sum you’re offering is daylight robbery, a fraction of what this place is worth.’

  The atmosphere suddenly grew tense as the partners of the WLHC supported by their muscle closed in. ‘This ain’t a request, Adderley. It’s an order. And sho
uld you refuse, there’s a clause in there,’ he tapped the document meaningfully, ‘giving us the right to take it by compulsory purchase at a much lower price.’

  ‘You can’t do that, it’s against the law,’ the diner boss protested.

  ‘We’re the law in this town now. Marshal Bonner has resigned.’ Sniggers from Lobo and his brother greeted this announcement. ‘And these two guys have kindly stepped in at short notice to fill the breech.’

  A heavy silence followed akin to that at a funeral.

  ‘So are you going to sign or not? It’s your call, mister.’ Meek and the others stood waiting, hands poised menacingly above gun butts while Wishbone Adderley pondered on his limited choices.

  ‘OK, you seem to have the whip hand here, I’ll sign.’ He reached down below the counter ostensibly to secure a pen. But his searching hand found the butt of a revolver kept there for trouble such as this.

  The twitch in the corner of an eye gave him away. Lobo had seen such nervous indications many times from guys who figured they had the match of the hired gunman. He was still here to prove otherwise. His own weapon was palmed in an instant, blasting flame and death towards the naïve café owner. Adderley staggered back. The gun fell from his weak grasp as he disappeared behind the counter. The shriek of dismay from outside went unheeded.

  ‘Now that was a foolish move, Mr Adderley,’ remarked Meek, removing a pen from his jacket and scrawling a note in the place reserved for the seller’s name. It read: BOUGHT BY COMPULSORY PURCHASE. ‘But it saves us having to hand out any dough.’

  Perry Blaine turned towards the bodyguards. ‘You boys spread the word. And make sure the owners of the other premises know what happens if’n they adopt the same high-handed attitude as poor old Wishbone.’ He handed Billy Joe a list of five saloons, plus the gun shop and general store that needed their expertly persuasive talents. ‘Take some more of the boys and let them know we’ll be along shortly.’

  By the end of the week, all of the town’s principal businesses were in the hands of the self-appointed Land Commission. Only one saloon owner on the list had displayed any backbone when handed the ultimatum. Ellis Fargo who ran the Oriental had no intention of handing over his hard-earned business for a pittance. He barricaded himself inside the saloon and challenged the interlopers to do their worst.

  ‘I’m ready for you skunks,’ he called out when the knock came on the locked front door. ‘Try breaking in and I’ll cut you to ribbons. There’s enough ammo and food in here to last me a month. You ain’t getting your dirty hands on the Oriental while there’s breath in my body.’

  ‘That can certainly be arranged, Fargo, if’n you don’t see sense,’ replied an irked Cody Meek. But there was to be no stand-down from the stubborn owner. Meek scowled at the locked door. But the delegation was forced to retreat to the opposite side of Kingman to discuss what to do next.

  It was a stand-off. Shots were fired and threats made. But Fargo remained adamant that he was staying put. After half an hour of stalemate, the WLHC faction retired to the Prairie Dog to determine what action to take. A couple of hired toughs kept watch on the Oriental to make sure that Fargo stayed inside.

  ‘No way can we let this critter off the hook,’ Meek angrily remonstrated. ‘He gets away with this and it might give the others some unwelcome ideas. We have to do something, and fast.’

  Various ideas were tossed around but none were deemed practicable. Eventually it was left to the new marshal who suggested a way round the irksome dilemma. ‘Reckon there’s only one way to teach this varmint a lesson,’ Lobo declared. The others waited for him to reveal his plan. ‘Burn him out. The Oriental is the one place along Kingman that’s not attached to any other. So the fire won’t spread.’

  ‘But that will destroy a going concern,’ objected Blaine. ‘And the Oriental does good business.’

  Lobo scoffed at the impresario’s hostility towards his plan. ‘What’s one saloon? You already have enough rope to tie this town up good and proper. Let Fargo win and it could put the kibosh on us all getting rich.’

  ‘He’s right, Perry,’ Meek said, concurring with their new partner. ‘We have to let everybody know whose running things around here. A burn-out will deliver that message loud and clear.’

  And so it was agreed. They took up positions opposite the saloon. Meek made one final attempt to bring the defiant rebel to his senses. A spirited ‘Go to Hell!’ from Ellis Fargo was followed up by a fusillade of shots. But none found their mark. All the assailants kept their heads well down.

  Browny Jagus couldn’t resist a mocking taunt. ‘That the best you can do, Fargo? If’n you think a few slugs are gonna frighten us off, you’re one estupido tonto.’

  ‘My brother just called you a foolish idiot, señor. You going to stand for that?’

  More shots were followed by ribald laughter from the attackers. But the goading was a deliberate ploy to hold the attention of the renegade while Billy Joe and Stonewall slipped round the back to set the fire going beneath the raised foundations of the wooden structure.

  Within minutes smoke was billowing out as the deadly conflagration took hold. Orange flames licked hungrily at the dry wood as the fire rapidly spread to the upper storey. Nobody cheered. It was a poignant reminder of how deadly a rampant fire can be. The attackers watched, mesmerized by the dancing flames as they waited for the trapped man to emerge.

  ‘What in blue blazes is the fool doing in there?’ exclaimed Perry Blaine.

  ‘Maybe he wants an Indian send-off,’ remarked Lobo with casual unconcern. ‘Don’t make no difference in the end.’

  ‘There he is!’ Jagus called out.

  A figure had emerged onto the upper veranda. It was Ellis Fargo. His arms were flapping like crazy as he desperately tried to bat out the flames consuming his clothes. But there was no escape from the rampaging inferno. Lobo drew his pistol. ‘That guy needs putting out of his misery.’ This was no act of mercy on the part of the cold-eyed killer. He could have been shooting an injured dog. The shot was accurately placed, striking the burning figure dead centre.

  Fargo plunged over the railing.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaagh!!’ The wail of terror was cut short when the human torch hit the dirt.

  Lobo blew the smoke from his gun barrel and with a nonchalant smirk declared to one and all, ‘Looks like the town’s in our hands now, amigos.’

  ‘Yahoooo!’ cheered his brother. ‘This deserves a drink or three to celebrate, muchachos.’

  Billy Joe joined in the hallooing. ‘I’m all for that. Let’s go, fellas,’ he said leading the way back up the street to the Prairie Dog, leaving the rampant blaze to burn itself out. Meek and Blaine followed behind effecting a more dignified bearing that accorded with their newly acquired status as the rulers of Wichita.

  The reversal of circumstances affecting the town had stunned the regular citizens. Such was the rapidity of change they had been impotent to stop. Mayor Wishart, who had attempted to remonstrate with the hedonistic transformation, was brusquely pushed aside and removed from office. His formal regalia was commandeered by Cody Meek who had always hankered after becoming Mayor of Wichita.

  His wish had now come true. Donning the ceremonial robe and chain of office he strutted around town. It provided a disturbing indication to one and all that the old order had passed.

  The carpetbaggers who had set up shop over the river in Delano were equally dismayed. Their patrons soon abandoned the rough and ready establishments for those being resurrected in Wichita. A collective sigh of satisfaction tempered with relief was patently evident as Meek and Blaine welcomed all comers.

  Once again the universal cry was taken up – ‘Anything goes in Wichita’.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Back from the Brink

  While all this was taking place, Cal Bonner was laid up in Dead Man’s Draw. It had been touch and go whether he would survive the first night. Nightjar had stayed at the cabin to tend the patient. ‘Any sign of his deteriorating and
I need to know,’ the doctor had ordered his makeshift assistant. ‘We should know in a couple of days if he’s going to pull through.’

  It was three days before Cal finally rejoined the land of the living. Nightjar fussed around making sure he didn’t try getting up. ‘The doc gave me strict orders to make sure you rest up to let those wounds heal properly. And I’m a man of my word.’ He gently eased the sick man back onto the bed. ‘I’ve made a pot of strong broth. You’re gonna need building up to tackle those skunks who are running the town now.’

  The loyal stableman went on to outline the course of events that had bypassed the unconscious lawman since his disastrous showdown with Lobo. But Cal’s principal concern was for his wife. ‘Does she know that I’m still alive?’ he worriedly enquired.

  Nightjar shook his head. ‘Only me and the doc are in on this subterfuge,’ the old timer said. ‘He reckons that if’n Miss Tilly finds out, she’ll let the cat out the bag. The fewer people who are in on this caper, the safer for you. If’n those jaspers find out you’re still breathing, they’ll shift heaven and earth to finish the job properly.’

  Cal nodded morosely. It made sense. But his heart went out to the woman he loved. Her heart would be needlessly broken, and all because of those scheming rats. Once again he struggled to rise. But he was still far too weak, and flopped back onto the bed. ‘Patience they tell me is a virtue,’ chided the finger-wagging Nightjar. ‘And you’re gonna need a heap of that stuff before getting back into the saddle.’

  A week passed before Cal Bonner felt strong enough to venture outside the confining walls of the small cabin. Sniffing the fresh air and watching the meadow larks cavorting playfully in the clearing was a tonic in itself. His first smoke in over a week made him cough, but the calming effect of the tobacco helped to focus his thoughts.