Crow Creek Crossing (15 page)

“Yes, damn it,” she cried, “I understand you.”

“Good,” he said, and released her. “Come on, Sanchez, let's go get a drink.”

The two women stood staring at the door after they had gone, still stunned by all that had taken place, scarcely able to believe it had actually happened. The world had gone completely loco to let an evil force like those two take over an entire town. Looking through the open door, they could see the bodies of Jesse Springer and Alvin Tucker, and knew that there was no one left to protect them, or any of the other decent people in the town.

“You shouldn't have told him I was living in the hotel,” Mary Lou said.

“You sure as hell couldn't tell him where your room is,” Maggie replied. “And he looked like he was about to beat it outta you.”

“But now he's got a reason to come after you,” Mary Lou said. “What are you gonna do?”

“I've got my shotgun, and I'm gonna keep it by my side from now on,” Maggie said. “It's gonna cost him plenty if he comes after me. I'm too old to worry about
that piece of slime bothering me, anyway. I'm more worried about you. Have you got a gun?”

“Yes, I've got a Colt revolver in my room, and I'll use it before I let that monster touch me again.”

She reached up and felt the bruise already forming on her cheek. Her natural sense of survival told her to run, but there was no place to run to. Everything she owned was in her room behind the kitchen. She had no horse, and no one to help her. With Jim Thompson dead, there was no one to go to for help. And in the dining room, there were just the three women, she and Maggie and Beulah, Maggie's part-time cook. “What are you going to do about the dining room?” Mary Lou wondered then.

“I'm gonna close it, I guess,” Maggie said. “I don't see how I can try to keep it open as long as the hoodlums have taken over the town.”

“Corbett talked like he expected you to cook for him.”

“He can cook for himself,” Maggie said, “or take his meals at the Sundown Saloon. When Beulah shows up in the morning, I'm gonna send her home.”

Her cook had been fortunate to have just gone home before Corbett and Sanchez came in. Further discussion was interrupted then by the squeaking of the hinges as the pantry door was cautiously eased open. In the aftermath of the violence, they had forgotten the frightened man still hiding in the pantry.

They both turned to gaze at the timid storekeeper as he peeked out of the partially opened door, reluctant to come out until positively sure the killers had gone.

“Come on out, Mr. Green,” Mary Lou told him. “They're gone.” He came forward then, holding his
shotgun in front of him in an effort to hide the extensive wet stain spreading on his trousers. Intent upon fleeing, he headed straight for the back door. “Wait a minute,” Mary Lou said. “You can at least give us a hand getting these two bodies out of the dining room.”

“I'm sorry. I can't,” he said. “I've got to get home. You two oughta be able to drag them out the front door so Harvey White can pick them up and prepare them for burial.”

“Yeah, you'd better hurry home,” Maggie mocked. “Your family might need somebody to protect them.”

“God help them if they do,” Mary Lou added as he slipped out the door. She turned to look at the two bodies again and sighed. “Well, let's drag them outta the dining room. There's nothing more we can do with them. Maybe we can send one of those fools still standing around in the street to go get Harvey.”

“It ain't that bad,” Doc Marion said when he wrapped a bandage around Arthur Campbell's thigh. “You're gonna be limping around for a few days, but the bullet's out, and it doesn't look like it's infected. Now, I'm gonna give you the same advice I just gave Leon Bloodworth. Find yourself someplace to hide for a few days, because those outlaws will most likely come looking for you. Whatever possessed you damn fools to go after those two murderers without wearing sacks on your heads or some kinda masks?”

“I reckon we were pretty sure we were gonna rub the two of 'em out, so we wouldn't need the sacks,” Campbell confessed meekly.

“Damn it, Arthur, you weren't tangling with a couple of drunk railroad men. You boys should have known better than to go head-on with the likes of Slade Corbett and that animal riding with him.” Doc shook his head, exasperated. “Well, you and Leon had better get the hell outta town for a few days, and
maybe they'll leave. I sent somebody to tell Paul over at the telegraph office to wire Fort Laramie about the trouble we've got here. Maybe they'll send troops down here to help us out.”

“I've already thought about it,” Campbell said. “Me and Leon are gonna hole up at Boyd Mather's ranch till this blows over. My wife's already packing up some things we'll need. She's going with me. My boy, Claude, can handle the desk at the hotel. I told him not to tell those bastards he's my son. I just wish to hell they hadn't taken a room in the hotel.”

Doc tied a knot in the bandage and gave it a light pat with his hand. “Try to keep that bandage clean. Now, get going before they come here looking for you. They know you're shot, right?”

“Right,” Campbell answered.

Doc shook his head, worried about the outcome of the bungled attack.

•   •   •

Benny Swartz stood behind the bar at the Sundown Saloon talking to his bartender, Jake Short, while keeping a nervous eye on the two men sitting at the back corner table.

“They ain't really caused no trouble,” Jake said in response to Benny's question. “They just look like they're dead set on drinkin' all the whiskey in Cheyenne. The one wearin' the hat with the fancy silver hatband was tryin' to get some fellers to get a card game started. But it don't look like anybody wants to risk their necks playin' cards with those two. They've been talkin' pretty big about killin' Alvin Tucker and Jesse Springer, braggin' about how they
shot 'em down when they jumped 'em over at the dining room.”

“That was bad business,” Benny muttered softly, thinking that it could have been him if he hadn't begged out of it. Looking at the nearly empty whiskey bottle on the table, he asked, “How much do they owe us?”

“Oh, they're payin' for the whiskey they're drinkin',” Jake said. “Matter of fact, they've bought a few rounds for some of those railroad boys back there. I think they're showin' off, lettin' everybody see how much money they've got.”

“Well, keep 'em happy, then, and maybe they'll leave all of it right here,” Benny told him, never too fearful to think about a possible profit. “I've gotta go to the house now. I'll check back with you in a little while.”

“What if they run outta money and ask for credit?”

“Same as anybody else,” Benny said. “We don't sell whiskey on credit.”

He went out the door then, leaving Jake to handle any trouble that might arise with the two gunmen. He hadn't been willing to confront them when the vigilance committee went to execute them, and he was reluctant to face them now more than ever. It was obvious that since the town's vigilantes had attacked them, Corbett and Sanchez felt they had a license to kill anybody and call it self-defense.

Benny's assessment of the situation was right on the mark, for the two were even then tiring of sitting in the saloon, drinking.

“Whaddaya say we take a walk down to the stables and shoot that son of a bitch that ran outta the
dinin' room?” Slade suggested. “I've already got one bullet in him—might as well finish him off in case he gets his nerve up again.”

“I not so sure it's your bullet in his shoulder,” Sanchez said. “I think maybe I hit him.”

“You probably think you got the other'n, too,” Slade scoffed, “that hotel feller.”

“Maybe,” Sanchez said with a shrug.

Knowing how useless it was to argue the point with the stoic Sanchez, Slade just snorted derisively.

“Well, let's go see if we can find him. I don't want him sneakin' up on me and shootin' me in the back. I got a little business I gotta take care of back at the hotel, and if I drink much more of this damn whiskey, I ain't gonna be able to take care of her proper.”

Already feeling the effects of too much alcohol, Sanchez was beginning to feel more like going straight to the hotel room and sleeping it off.

“To hell with that damn man at the stable. He's holed up somewhere like a dog, licking his wound. This town is ours to do what we damn please. Nobody wants to mess with us. They afraid they get what those other two got.”

“We might own this town tonight, but tomorrow might be a different story,” Slade said. “Some of the churchgoin' people of this town are gonna be stirred up by the killin' we done tonight, and they might work up a real lynchin' party, more'n just the two of us can cut down. I'm sayin' we need to get our business done tonight and maybe head back to Colorado tomorrow before a damn army patrol shows up lookin' for us.”

“What about that son of a bitch that shot Tom
Larsen? I thought that was why we came back here, because you wanted to kill him so bad.”

“Well, I did come after him,” Slade replied, a little irritated by Sanchez's remark. “But he's run off somewhere. I can't settle with him if he ain't here. If I knew where he ran to, I'd still go shoot the son of a bitch.” Finished arguing with Sanchez about what they should do, Slade stated, “I'm goin' to look for that stable feller. I aim to make sure he don't come sneakin' up on me. You comin'?”

Without waiting for Sanchez's answer, he got up and headed for the door.

Sanchez shrugged indifferently. In his opinion, there was not much chance that either Bloodworth or Campbell would have the guts to come after them again.

“What the hell?” he decided, got up, and followed Slade out of the saloon, oblivious of the look of relief on the bartender's face as they passed by the bar.

•   •   •

Marvin Bloodworth froze when the two killers appeared in the open door of the stable. The young man was in the process of closing up for the night in the absence of his father, who was at that moment on his way to Boyd Mather's ranch with Arthur Campbell. Leon had told him to close the stable doors early and go home, but he had taken longer than he had anticipated feeding the horses boarded there. Caught unprepared now, he could think of nothing to say and just stood staring at the gunmen.

“Where's the man who owns this place?” Slade asked, aware of the young man's fright.

“He ain't here,” Marvin finally managed,
watching nervously as Sanchez strode past him to look in the stalls and tack room.

“Well, where is he?” Slade demanded.

“I don't know,” Marvin said. “He just said he wouldn't be back for a spell.”

Not surprised to hear it, Slade took a hard look at Marvin. “Who the hell are you? Is the owner your pa?”

“No, sir,” Marvin lied. “I just work for him.”

Slade was not convinced, for he thought the boy favored Bloodworth. “You know, boy, I don't like bein' lied to.”

“I ain't lyin',” Marvin insisted, fearing for his life when Slade dropped his hand to rest on the handle of his handgun. He was spared further terror when Sanchez walked up then, coming from the back of the stalls.

“Nobody back there,” Sanchez said. “I coulda told you that before we walked down here. That son of a bitch is running like a scared jackrabbit.”

“I reckon,” Slade said. “I'm goin' back to the hotel now.”

He reminded himself that the five men who had attempted to kill Sanchez and him were not the only people in the town who would like to see them dead. He didn't like the thought that there might be a hidden rifle aimed at the two of them whenever they walked the streets. It was better to be inside the hotel. Besides, he had a social visit with the tall gal who waited tables in the dining room.

“We'll see if that feller I shot in the leg had the guts to show up,” he told Sanchez.

•   •   •

Slade recognized the young man behind the desk in the hotel lobby as the boy who had told him Tom Larsen had been shot and the shooter was coming after him. He knew that he was the son of Arthur Campbell, the owner of the hotel.

“Where's your pa, boy?”

“He's left town,” Claude answered. “I reckon you know why.”

“Let's get one thing straight,” Slade said, pointing his finger in Claude's face. “Your pa's lucky he ain't dead, like them other two that tried to kill us.”

“If he don't run like a scared rabbit, he would be dead,” Sanchez said, a contemptuous grin on his face. “Maybe you thinking about getting even.”

“No, sir,” Claude replied. “I ain't got no ideas about nothin'.”

“Good,” Slade said. “You'll live a lot longer that way.” He was content to leave the boy unharmed, since he made no show of standing up for his father. “Now reach back there and give me a key to room number four.”

Puzzled because he knew that his father had put the two outlaws in room two, Claude said, “We ain't usin' that room. What do you wanna get in that room for?”

“Boy, you're already startin' to get on my nerves,” Slade warned him. “I know who's in that room. Gimme the damn key.”

“There ain't nobody in room four,” Claude insisted. He pointed to an empty letter slot behind him. “There ain't even no key in the box.”

“You lyin' little bastard,” Slade growled. He grabbed Claude by the shirt collar and jerked him halfway across the counter. “That bitch Mary Lou
lives in that room. There ain't no key there because she's got it.”

“No, she don't,” Claude cried. “I swear she don't.”

Confused by Slade's assertion, and growing more frightened by the minute, he tried to pull away from the outlaw's grasp. Slade shoved him violently, dumping him on the floor behind the desk. Amused by the confrontation between Slade and the boy, Sanchez stopped halfway up the steps and waited there to watch the outcome. Unnoticed by Claude or Slade, he eased his .44 out of his holster.

Leaving the boy lying on the floor behind the desk, Slade turned to follow Sanchez up the stairs. “I don't need a damn key,” he announced angrily, unaware that Claude had reached for the bottom drawer of the desk where a revolver was always kept.

Intent all along to take vengeance upon the men who shot his father if given the opportunity, Claude slowly eased the drawer open and pulled the gun out. With his hand trembling with fear, he aimed it at the back of the man starting up the stairs and pulled the trigger.

At almost the same time, another shot rang out, this one from Sanchez, who anticipated such a possibility when Slade turned his back on the boy. The bullet slammed into the middle of Claude's chest, knocking him flat on his back. Slade, startled, dropped to his knees on the stairs after Claude's shot whistled harmlessly by his ear.

Furious at having come so close to taking a bullet in the back, Slade pulled his pistol and pumped three shots in the already dying boy. He turned then to unleash his fury on a grinning Sanchez.

“Damn you,” he roared. “What the hell were you
waiting for? I oughta shoot you for lettin' him get that shot off!”

“You oughta try,” Sanchez replied, his .44 resting on the stair rail, his sinister grin still in place. He was obviously amused by his partner's flustered response to the near miss and, as usual, was ready to shoot again if Slade was foolish enough to let his anger get the best of him.

Smart enough to realize that Sanchez held the advantage, Slade forced himself to calm down. “Well, I reckon I shoulda been more careful about turnin' my back on the kid. I shoulda known he might wanna get back at me for shootin' his pa.”

“He so damn scared he couldn't hold his hand steady enough to hit the side of the wall,” Sanchez said. “I not worried about him hitting you.”

“That's damn reassurin',” Slade said sarcastically. “Maybe next time it'll be the other way around.” Bringing his mind back to the moment, he looked around the tiny lobby as if searching for bystanders, realizing then that the hotel was deserted. “We might as well take a look in the safe while we're at it.”

He went back behind the desk and rolled Claude's body away from the small built-in safe.

“Damn,” he cursed. It was unlocked and empty of all cash and valuables. He knelt there staring into the empty safe for a long moment, before getting to his feet and stating, “Well, I'm gonna go pay a little visit to Miss Mary Lou. I can't keep her waitin' much longer.”

Sanchez grunted derisively. “I expect she excited as hell.”

They went up the stairs to the second floor,
continuing on past the door to room two before Slade stopped. “Where the hell are you goin'?”

Surprised, Sanchez said, “With you. You think you're the only one who got needs?”

“I'll be damned,” Slade replied. “This is between the woman and me. Hell, you ain't even talked to her.”

“I ain't talked to my horse,” Sanchez retorted, “but I still ride him.”

“I don't need no company,” Slade told him. “So you just go on in our room and I'll tell you when I'm done. Then I don't care what the hell you do with her.”

Sanchez shrugged, indifferent, as he was about most things that pertained to killing, robbing, or women. “If that's the way you want it. You might need some help, though. She don't act like she's saddle-broke.”