Payback at Big Silver (5 page)

“Why don't you shut your stupid mouth,
Dirty
Donald?” Boyle said. “Let the doctor talk. Maybe you'll be holstering that Remmy and drinking at the bar quicker than you think.”

“Keep running your mouth,” Rudabaugh cautioned, “you'll likely end up hanging yourself.”

Ferry fell quiet.

“What I'm suggesting, Sheriff,” the doctor said, limiting his information to the lawman he knew to be in charge, “is that perhaps this fellow's shot missed, and Mama Belleza simply died from all the excitement.”

Missed . . . ?

Sam and the sheriff gave each other a look, then stared at the doctor.

“Missed . . . ?”
Ferry gave a smug, sarcastic chuff. “Like hell I missed,” he said. “She's dead because I
nailed her
, one shot, under fire, bang! That was all. She went down,
graveyard dead
.” He looked back and forth between Rudabaugh and Boyle, trying to appear cool and calm. Yet he couldn't mask the shame on his reddened face.

“Yeah, you
nailed her
, huh?” Stone said without hiding his contempt.

“Wait, Sheriff. Listen,” Ferry said, “that's not how I mean it. I mean I killed her, yes, but in self-defense like everybody said—”

“Why
won't
you shut up?” Boyle demanded.

“You missed,” Rudabaugh said flatly.

“I didn't miss,” Ferry shouted. “This doctor is lying!”

Tierney cut in, “As I said, I'll need to examine Mama Belleza closer to make certain what killed her. But she was a very old woman. Close to a hundred, I've heard. She very easily could have died from all the excitement.”

“There he goes again,” Ferry said. He shook his head in disgust with the doctor and pounded himself on the chest. “I killed her, damn it!”

“You damn fool, shut up!” Boyle snapped.

The Ranger watched and listened. Stone was still doing his job, working his end of the law.

“You admit to it, then,” he said to Ferry. “That you shot and killed a hundred-year-old woman?”

“Yes,” said Ferry, “but in self-defense—”

“No, he did not shoot a hundred-year-old woman,” said Boyle, cutting him off. He glared coldly at Donald Ferry and added, “He
tried
to, but he
fucking
missed—missed, at a distance of thirty feet. . . .”

Rudabaugh only stared at Ferry, his expression blank and indiscernible.

“Gentlemen,” the doctor said, “all of this idle speculation is getting us nowhere.”

“Hear, hear,” Rudabaugh said flatly.

“Follow us to my office,” the doctor said. “I'll determine exactly what killed Mama Belleza as soon as I get this man treated properly.” He looped Ferry's arm over his shoulders and turned toward his big clapboard house down the street.

The Ranger and Stone walked along beside the doctor.

“You're not getting out of my sight until we get this settled, Ferry,” Sheriff Stone said.

“But it
was
self-defense,” Ferry reasoned, “no matter how it all
settles
.” He looked back again at Rudabaugh and Boyle. They made no effort to follow the doctor.

“Go on with the sheriff, Donald,” said Rudabaugh. “We'll be waiting inside the Silver Palace.” He turned and started to walk back into the saloon, the townsfolk moving aside to form a path in front of him.

“Why are we waiting anywhere for this dunderheaded fool?” Boyle asked in a secretive tone as he fell in beside Rudabaugh.

“We'll talk about it in private, Clayton,” Rudabaugh said quietly as they stepped onto the boardwalk toward the saloon doors.

Inside the Silver Palace, Rudabaugh and Boyle sat at a corner table that faced the street through six wavy windowpanes. Boyle had pulled back a pair of striped curtains to provide a view in the direction of the doctor's office. A bottle of rye and two shot glasses stood atop the table between them. Across the wide stone-tiled floor, drinkers lined the crowded bar. Three bartenders in white collarless shirts and black sleeve garters busily poured whiskey and slung frothy mugs of beer. Cigar smoke loomed thick and low from the ceiling.

“I'd say ol' Edsel has cut himself one luscious sweet piece of pie here,” said Clayton Boyle. He raised his shot glass as if to toast their good fortune in working for a man like Centrila.

Rudabaugh raised his glass as well.

“It's
Mr. Centrila
to you, Clay,” he said with a wry half smile.

The two tossed back half the amber rye and set the glasses down with their fists around them. They each let out a whiskey hiss.

“I'll
Mr. Centrila
him all day long from both ends to the middle,” said Boyle, “so long as our pay keeps showing up on time.”

“And it will,” Rudabaugh said. “We can count on it.” He turned loose of his glass and poured them both another shot. “Besides, I look for Centrila to come showing up here most any time now.”

Boyle raised the shot glass and gazed into the settling rye as if pondering its purpose on earth.

“I hope he does,” he said. “The quicker he tells us to kill this sheriff, the better. I hate planning something and keep putting it off.” He took a sip of the rye, this time a short sip, and rubbed his lips together, savoring it.

“Ordinarily I'm the same way,” said Rudabaugh. “But this time I figure, what's the hurry? There's worse places to be than waiting for a man who owns the only drinking establishments in town—not to mention the only covey of doves in fifty miles.”

“That is the good side to it,” Boyle said. He let out a breath. “I need to relax more.” He paused, then said, “All right, we come in here to talk about what to do with this
Dirty
Donald idiot. Should I take him off somewhere and head-pop him? He's not worth anything to us.”

“No, leave him be for now,” said Rudabaugh. “Hiring him was a mistake, but it was Centrila's mistake, not ours.”

“Where did Centrila come up with the likes of him?” Boyle asked.

Rudabaugh grinned a little and shook his head.

“Ferry's one of Harper Centrila's pals, as I understand it,” he said. “I think the two of them managed to rob a couple of banks together without shooting themselves or each other.” He gave a slight shrug. “Now that Centrila's hired him, he thinks he's turned bull of the walk. So let's play him along.”

“He's a damn fool,” Boyle said.

“Yep, so let's make him
our
fool,” Rudabaugh said. He leaned forward a little. “Once Stone is dead, if anybody gets their neck stretched for killing him, let it be Dirty Donald instead of us.”

Boyle considered it for a moment, then gave a shrug himself.

“Whatever you say, Silas,” he replied. “Who knows? We come across any more hundred-year-old women we need killed, Ferry's the man for the job.”

Rudabaugh chuckled.

“Yes, except he can't hit nothing,” he said.

Boyle took a sidelong glance out through the wavy window glass.

“Speak of a fool and he sticks his head up,” he said. He nodded out the window at Ferry, who walked along the edge of the street from the doctor's office toward the saloon.

“All right,” said Rudabaugh, “when he gets here let's make him feel welcome.” He raised a hand toward the busy bar and summoned one of the bartenders over to the table. When the tall bald-headed man arrived, Rudabaugh said, “Phil, bring us three cigars, a clean shot glass and a tall mug of beer.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Rudabaugh,” said the bartender. He turned and hurried away.

“Hear that, Clayton?” said Rudabaugh. “It's
Mr. Rudabaugh
while we're here on Centrila's payroll. You know, he made me sort of manager of this place—said look after his interest for the time being.” He gave his half smile again. “I tell you, I could get used to this.”

“I see you can,” Boyle observed.

The bartender returned in only seconds with the beer, the shot glass and black cigars in hand. Laying the items on the table, he handed each of them a cigar and produced a long match. He stood expectantly while they sniffed the cigars and stuck them into their mouths.

Rudabaugh gave Boyle a look as the match flared to life and the bartender lit their cigars in turn.

“Anything else, gentlemen?” the bartender asked.

“That's all, Phil,” Rudabaugh said, letting out a stream of smoke. He looked at Boyle as the bartender walked away. “See what I'm saying? This ain't no bad job, waiting for ol' Edsel to show up and take over firsthand.”

Boyle nodded.

“You're right,” he said, “I just need to ease up and enjoy the wait.”

“That's the spirit,” said Rudabaugh. He nodded toward Donald Ferry as Ferry limped into the saloon, a hand held loosely against the bandaged wound in his side. “Now let's show this boy how much we
like
him.”

“You first, Silas,” Boyle said under his breath as Ferry walked over to their table.

“Fair enough, watch this,” Rudabaugh said, also under his breath. He swung around in his chair, facing Ferry with as much of a smile as he could manufacture.

“How's the side, Donald?” he asked.

“Sore,” Ferry said, “but it's not a bad wound.”

“What happened over there, Ferry?” Rudabaugh said with interest. “Did the doctor clear you? We were starting to get concerned. Figuring we might have to come break you out.” He gestured for Ferry to sit down in an empty chair where an empty shot glass stood as if waiting for him. He quickly reached out with the bottle of rye and filled the glass.

Ferry looked confused, taken aback by this sudden change in attitude toward him. But he eased down into the chair and wrapped his free hand around the shot glass.

“Well,” said Boyle, looking Ferry up and down, “are you going to tell us what happened with the doctor, or not?”

“Hey, take it easy, Clayton,” said Rudabaugh. “Give the man time to wet his whistle.” He held on to the bottle as if ready to pour again as soon as Ferry's glass needed filling. The two stared at Ferry in rapt anticipation. Ferry raised the glass to his lips and took a short sip.

“Well,” he said almost hesitantly, “the doctor says my shot grazed the old woman's shoulder, but he concluded it didn't kill her. Stone had to let me go, bad as he hated to.” He looked back and forth between the two gunmen as if expecting their scorn. “It
was
self-defense, like we all knew it was.”

Boyle sat watching quietly, curious as to how Rudabaugh would handle this. Rudabaugh nodded as if giving the matter serious consideration. Finally he raised a finger for emphasis and gave Ferry a sly grin.

“That was some damn quick thinking on your part,” he said. “Not to mention, some
damn fine
shooting.”

Ferry looked bewildered.

“Huh?”
Boyle said. “Quick
thinking
 . . . fine
shooting
?” He looked equally puzzled by Rudabaugh's words. “Did I miss something there?” He stared at Ferry as if demanding an explanation. But Rudabaugh held up a hand as if to stop Ferry from explaining his actions.

“Allow me, Donald,” Rudabaugh said. He turned to Boyle and continued. “He pulled his shot, Clayton. Aimed high left instead of dead center. It took some cool-handed confidence, the way I see it.”

Boyle sat staring, picking up on Rudabaugh's game.

“Imagine the black cloud we could have hung over Centrila's new saloons if Donald had splattered that old crow's heart all over the street,
self-defense
or not,” Rudabaugh continued.

Boyle eased back in consideration.

“All right, Silas, I'll give you that,” he said. He gave Ferry a nod and studied him as if starting to see him in a little different light. “You figured all that, Donald? That quick?” He snapped his fingers to show how quick. “You figured to fire high, wing her instead of—”

“Of course he did,” Rudabaugh cut in before Boyle could even finish his question. “It's a damn good thing too. That old woman's wild bullets could have hit any one of us.” He smiled admirably and topped off Ferry's whiskey glass with the bottle of rye. “Drink up, pard. You've earned your seat at
this
table.” He tipped the raised bottle as if in a toast and turned his eyes to Boyle for support.

Boyle raised his shot glass, indulging Rudabaugh without showing his disdain for Ferry.

“I'll go along with that,” he said coolly.

•   •   •

The Ranger and Stone stood out in front of the sheriff's office to keep their conversation from being overheard by Boomer Phipps and Freddie Dobbs. They saw townsmen flock from all over town to the Silver Palace to drink and talk about the shooting. A tinny piano rattled above street. Farther down the street, Mama Belleza's cantina sat empty, its doors closed, the little adobe structure looking bleak and shadowy in the fading evening sunlight.

“That poor ol' woman didn't deserve to die like this,” Stone commented with unveiled bitterness. He sucked on a cough drop; his fingertips rapped sharply on the butt of his big Colt.

“No, she didn't,” the Ranger said, “but we both know it was self-defense, whether we like it or not.”

“Whose side are you on?” Stone asked, turning a cold eye to the Ranger.

“Whose side do you
think
?” the Ranger said, coming back just as cold.

Stone eased down and looked off along the street.

“I'm on the side of the law,” Sam said in an even tone. “I know you are too, else I wouldn't be standing here with you.”

Stone nodded and eased down some more.

“Being
lawful
don't always make a thing right,” the sheriff said. “Mama Belleza should have died in her bed with family around, not out in the street. She didn't deserve this.”

“I understand,” Sam said. “We both know the law isn't about what folks deserve. Folks get what the situation bequeaths them. Trim away all the circumstances, she came at a man shooting and he shot back—even took a bullet from her.”

“So you're telling me Dirty Donald Ferry had
a right
to stand his ground, Ranger?” Stone said, turning back to him. “Against a woman going on a hundred years old?”

“No, I'm not going to tell you he had the right,” Sam said firmly. “But I want to hear
you tell me
that he didn't.”

Stone feel silent and looking away again.

“Somebody has to stand up for Mama Belleza,” Stone said.

“You've been standing up for folks like her since the day you pinned on a badge, Sheriff,” Sam said. “It's not right what happened to her. But once you trim the circumstances down to the bone, the law says she was in the wrong. Those three are no-account outlaws and killers, but Donald Ferry was within his rights. The law owes him the same diligence it owed Mama Belleza—bad as I hate to say it.”

“This was all Edsel Centrila's fault,” Stone said, refusing to give in on the matter. He gestured toward the Silver Palace. “Him and his dang big fancy saloon . . . driving an old woman like Mama out of business. Causing her to do some fool thing like this.” He shook his head. “All just to get back at me for turning him in to the judge.”

“You really figure he did all this—bought out this big saloon, just to get back at you, Sheriff?” Sam asked quietly.

Stone fished a fresh cough drop from his shirt pocket and stuck it into his mouth with shaky fingers.

“I know that's not the only reason he bought it,” he said. “But I know him to be a spiteful man, and I have no doubt it played into him buying it. Any time I walk through the Palace doors, I'm going to expect the worst.”

“That's not a bad idea any time you walk into a saloon wearing a badge,” Sam said. “All this other, maybe you want to give it some more thought.”

Stone let his hands fall to his sides.

“All right,” he said with resolve, “I know you think I'm being suspicious and crazy, so I'm going to quit talking about it.” He took a deep breath and changed the subject. “You know I saw all this coming, don't you?”

“It appeared that you did, I have to admit,” said the Ranger.

“Awfully weird incident, huh,” said Stone, “how I saw her lying there dead before it happened?”

“Either an
awfully weird
incident or one
awfully
peculiar coincidence,” Sam said.

“Coincidence?”
said Stone. “You saw it, you heard it. Are you now going to say I didn't see it coming?”