Gun Play at Cross Creek Read online

  Gun Play at Cross Creek

  Bill Dugan

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  By Bill Dugan

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  “JUST PUT UP YOUR GUN, REAL EASY.”

  “Lay it on the bar, and that’ll be the end of it,” Kinkaid said.

  “You know that ain’t so, marshal.”

  “Have it your way.”

  Slayton shook his head. “No sir. We’ll have it your way. That’ll be just fine.”

  He wiggled his fingers to loosen them, then went for it. Kinkaid was a lot faster. He put one in Deak Slayton’s chest, just above the third shirt button. Deak slid down the front of the bar, leaving a long, dark, shiny smear on the wood. In the dim lamplight, it looked almost like creosote.

  Deak swallowed once, then a small bubble of blood ballooned between his lips. He groaned, the rush of air bursting the bubble.

  Then it got quiet.

  Chapter 1

  THE SIGN SAID “Cross Creek” in sickly blue paint. The letters were uneven, done in a shaky hand, like that of a child still uncomfortable with the alphabet. Under the name of the town, much smaller, but no less shaky, was the legend “pop. 879—last count.” Someone had added the last two words, as a joke, most likely, and the lettering was bold and straight. The sign had been there for six years. The legend was much more recent, added by one of the saner souls who had decided Cross Creek was not much of a place to visit, and sure as hell was no place to live. The town, in short, had a bad reputation.

  Cross Creek sat in the heart of Wyoming cattle country, and its reputation did nothing to discourage visits from hands of the two dozen or so huge spreads that fanned out across the Laramie foothills. They wanted a place to drink, and a place to dip their wicks. Cross Creek never let them down. Nobody left thirsty, and nobody left horny.

  But the town also wanted to grow, or at least to survive. Its more civilized residents were getting tired of the Friday night shoot outs, brawling knife fights that spilled out of the saloons, of which there were currently six, and into the streets. They were tired of stepping over smelly drunks on the way to church, of which they had their choice of two, on a Sunday morning. They wanted normal lives. They wanted the kind of quiet town they had imagined when they left the Ohio Valley and the slums of St. Louis, the stockyards of Chicago, and the mines of Pennsylvania. In short, they wanted Cross Creek to be decent, a place to raise a family, a place to rock on the front porch after a hard day’s work. A place to die. Quietly. In bed.

  But the cowboys thought differently. Deak Slayton thought differently as he rode past the sign one summer Friday evening, with a half-dozen men from the Rocking Y. He reined in abruptly, backed his horse up, and stared at the sign, leaning forward from his saddle and squinting into the red ball of the setting sun. He’d seen the sign before, two or three dozen times at least.

  “Come on, Deak, the hell you lookin’ at?” Riley Grand shouted, jerking his own mount in a half circle and tilting his hat back on his head. Grand was thirsty, he had a month’s pay in his jeans, and only sixty hours to spend it all.

  “Nothing,” Slayton said. He pointed at the sign, but didn’t say anything else.

  “What about it? It’s a sign. You seen it before.”

  “Yeah, I seen it before.” But this time something about it just got on Deak Slayton’s nerves. He’d had a bad week, and he was hot, tired, and, above all else, angry, with that abiding anger that is so deeply rooted it seems that nothing will ever expunge it. He jerked his Colt out of its holster and cocked the hammer.

  “The hell you doin’, Deak? Come on.”

  “Hold your water. I’m thinking.”

  “That ought to make the papers back East. Maybe an Extra, even.”

  “You got a big mouth, Riley,” Slayton said. Then he squeezed the trigger. The bullet pierced the sign just below the “o” in “Cross.” Slayton grinned. “Looks a damn sight better that way, you ask me.”

  Grand wasn’t so sure. “I think that new marshal they got in town might think different on that, Deak. You better put that gun up.”

  “Don’t bother me. I seen lots of men wear a badge didn’t have the legs to carry it when it came time.”

  “That ain’t what I hear about this ’un.”

  “A marshal’s a marshal, Riley. My daddy killed one once, back in El Paso. I ain’t been scared of one since then.”

  “I’m telling you, Deak, this one’s different. He ain’t like that.”

  “Maybe so. But if he ain’t, he’s the first one.” In quick succession, Slayton fired three more times. When he finally holstered the Colt, he grinned at Riley Grand through a cloud of gunsmoke. The sign lay on the ground in pieces. Even the post had been shattered. It looked like someone had hit it a good lick with an axe.

  Grand turned his horse and kicked it with his spurs. The animal leapt forward, and the rest of the hands followed him, except for Slayton, who sat there grinning at his handiwork. When the corners of his mouth got tired, he nudged his mount with his knees and moved on into Cross Creek at a walk.

  They spotted the others already on foot, crossing the street and heading for The Hangin’ Tree, a saloon, cum hotel, noted for its unwatered whiskey and unwashed women, the two things in life Deak Slayton couldn’t get enough of.

  He dismounted at the hitching rail in front of The Hangin’ Tree, tied off and stomped up onto the splintery boardwalk. Instead of going in right away, he dropped onto a wooden bench, also splintery, and every bit as much in need of paint as the boardwalk or, for that matter, the saloon itself, and rolled a cigarette.

  He was already licking the paper when he saw someone watching him from across the street. The man’s face was half hidden by his hat brim, but there was no mistaking the glitter on his chest. The brightly polished metal caught the rays of a declining sun and glowed like a ruby star.

  Slayton finished licking the paper, tapped both ends of the new cigarette on his heel a little too hard, and shoved one end into his mouth. He leaned back, flicked a match with his thumbnail, and took a long drag, tilting his hat back on his head as he let the smoke out in a thick gray rope.

  The marshal didn’t say anything. And he didn’t move, just stood there watching. Slayton started a wave, then thought it might be pushing things. There was something about the man behind the red star that made his blood freeze a little. He took another drag on the cigarette, blew the smoke out through his nose this time, then stubbed it out on the boardwalk.

  The marshal stepped down into the street and walked toward him, pushing his fancy jacket back off his hip. Slayton saw the gun, and was surprised at how ordinary it looked. Just a plain Colt, with dark brown grips. No pearl handle, no silver plate. Just a good, serviceable weapon. He would have expected something more showy from a hot shot.

  The marshal planted one foot on the boardwalk. “You don’t like our sign, I hear.”

  Slayton didn’t say anything.

  The marshal watched him closely for a moment before continuing. “In fact, I hear we don’t even have a sign anymore, you didn’t like it so much. That true?”
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br />   Slayton lit another cigarette, blew a long plume of smoke in the marshal’s direction, and remained silent.

  The marshal waved at the smoke. He smiled, but just barely. “Never did like smoking,” he said. “It’s a bad habit. But then, some folks just never get the message. You know what I mean?”

  Slayton finally broke his silence. “Marshal, you got something to say to me, why not say it flat out?”

  The marshal shook his head. “I said about all I’m gonna say, Deak. Except for one thing . . .” He waited for Slayton to ask.

  The cowhand didn’t want to ask, but knew the marshal would tell him anyway, so he said, “What’s that?”

  “Funny you should ask,” the marshal said. “I expect that sign will be back in place before morning. Not the same one, of course, but one just as good. Henessey’s General Store carries everything a fellow could need. Wood, nails, paint. I guess you could even get a paintbrush, you need one. You just pass the word, in case you happen to bump into anybody might know something about what happened to that sign.”

  “I’ll do that, Marshal.”

  The marshal nodded, touched the brim of his hat with the tips of two fingers, then turned and walked back across the street. Deak Slayton glanced at the gun on his hip, thought about reaching for it a second, then thought better of it. The Colt had already got him in enough hot water, and he hadn’t even had a drink yet. He looked at the marshal’s back, then realized he was being watched. Just past the marshal’s shoulder, he could see the marshal’s face staring back at him in the store window across the street.

  The marshal smiled, but it was a cold smile.

  Deak Slayton sat there for a while, wondering how the marshal knew it was he who had blown the sign all to hell. He hadn’t been that far behind Riley and the others. And there wasn’t anybody else out there, not that he saw, anyway. He decided it must have been Riley Grand and his big mouth again. The marshal probably heard the shooting, asked Riley about it when he rode in, and Riley must have told him.

  He’d have to talk to Riley about that big mouth of his. Again. But it could wait till later, after he had a drink. It had been too long already, nearly five weeks, since his last taste of whiskey. It was about time. As he stood up, he saw the marshal leaning in the open doorway of the Cross Creek Courier, the county newspaper, across the way. The sun was behind the row of buildings across the way now, a dark red bulge just visible over the rooftops. That side of the street was in shadow. Under his hat brim, the marshal’s face was in deeper shadow still.

  Slayton couldn’t tell for sure whether the marshal was watching him, or just watching. Deak felt a little shiver run up his back, and he moved a little faster than he had intended, shoving the double doors of The Hangin’ Tree open with his elbows and letting them fan closed with a squeak of hinges.

  He spotted Riley Grand right away, leaning on the bar and laughing about something, flapping his gums to a couple of hands from the Flying V spread. Ginny was there, too, hanging on every word. She looked good, better than usual, in fact. The red dress made her shoulders look even whiter than he remembered.

  Ginny looked at him and took a step his way, excused herself and danced across the floor toward him. Maybe she was tired of listening to Riley, he thought. The man does go on. When she reached him, she threw her arms around him and stood on tiptoe. Deak was tall, nearly six two, and he had to lean down to plant a kiss on Ginny’s forehead.

  She squeezed him, then said, “You shouldn’t do that, Deak. Not here. I mean, everybody’s looking at us.”

  Slayton laughed. “If not here, where?”

  Ginny squeezed him again. “You know what I mean.”

  “What’s Riley on about?”

  “Oh, you know Riley.”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said.

  She backed away a step. There was something in his voice she didn’t like. “What’s wrong, Deak?”

  “Nothing a drink won’t cure,” he said. “Buy you one?”

  She nodded. He led the way, planting himself on Riley Grand’s elbow, up against the bar.

  “Took you so long, Deak?” Riley asked, sliding over a bit to make room for him.

  “Had a little talk with the new marshal.”

  “Brad, here, was just tellin’ me about him,” Riley said. “He’s a bad one.”

  “So he led me to believe,” Deak said, not really wanting to talk about it. He turned to the bartender. “Donny, let me and the little lady have a bourbon apiece, would you?”

  He was getting thirstier by the minute. It seemed like a good night to get drunk. Rub a little felt off his antlers. Hell, maybe even have another talk with the new marshal. He’d be damned if he was going to worry about the damn sign.

  Chapter 2

  MORGAN ATWATER REINED in. He leaned over the saddle and looked at the splintered remains of the sign on the ground. His practiced eye picked out the neat, round edges of the bullet holes. The board had fractured along its grain, but there was no mistaking what had caused the splitting. He shook his head, less in wonder than in sadness. Some trigger-happy fool had taken out a world of disillusionment on a piece of wood. Atwater hoped whoever it was felt better, but knew it wouldn’t last.

  Squeezing his mount with his knees, he coaxed the big bay into a slow trot. The town looked like a thousand others he had seen. Its buildings all one or two stories except for one, most sun-bleached timber or stark white paint. They looked like they could have been picked up from someplace in Texas, or Nebraska or . . . what the hell was the difference? He wasn’t here for the architecture. As he moved closer, the setting sun filled all their windows with bloody light, and they stared back at him like dozens of bleary-eyed drunks.

  But Atwater was used to scrutiny, used to hostility too, for all of that. Cross Creek had nothing to offer he hadn’t seen before. Except for one. And that one thing was the reason he was here at all. He wasn’t about to be spooked by some harebrained would-be gunslinger. And he didn’t give a damn how many disapproving glances stabbed him in the back. He was used to that, too.

  At the edge of town he slowed his horse, letting it walk down the center of the main street. Cross Creek looked busy, but that was to he expected. Friday nights in cow country were safety valves. Most Fridays, cowhands blew off as much steam as they could, sometimes a little more, dropped most of their cash, and stumbled back to business on a Monday morning. When that Friday coincided with the end of the month, rowdiness became a way of life.

  He spotted a sign advertising a livery stable, and nudged his horse a little faster, checking the shops and saloons on both sides of the street. The place didn’t look half bad. There was even a newspaper. Maybe somebody around here can even read, he thought, smiled at the notion, and clucked to the big bay again. It had been a long ride, and he was dead tired.

  He dismounted in front of the stable. The sign said “Milton’s Livery,” and it looked as if it had been recently painted. That meant either a thriving business or a new one. He hoped the former as he tugged on the reins and pulled the bay through the yawning doors. Inside, a pair of coal-oil lamps smeared orange light on the packed dirt and straw litter. A stack of hay bales looked like huge blocks of bullion in one corner.

  A wrinkled little man, bits of straw clinging to his pants and sticking out of his white hair, dropped a hayfork and stepped out of an open stall. He shuffled toward Atwater, his face a question mark.

  Atwater nodded. The little man ignored him, walked around the horse once, his gnarled fingers patting its flank, and, when he had completed the circuit, said, “Nice horse, mister.”

  “Thanks,” Atwater said.

  “You should take better care of him, though. Looks like you been riding him too hard.”

  “I come a long way.”

  “Don’t matter. You kill this big fella, you walk back, don’t you . . .” It wasn’t a question, and Atwater didn’t even try to answer. He waited for the little man to continue.

  He did. “I can get him b
ack to the kinda shape he should be in, though. If you stay long enough.”

  “I plan to.”

  “Good. Only right a man should take care of the beasts he depends on.”

  Atwater smiled. He’d seen all kinds of men, but by far the most opinionated, by type, were neither ministers nor politicians, the two most likely choices. They were stablemen. More often than not they had the manners of a rattler and the charm of a dead cow. But if you found one who knew horses, you were ahead of the game.

  “What do you charge?” Atwater asked.

  “Ten dollars the month. Three dollars the week. Four bits the day. Your choice.”

  Atwater fished in his pocket, pulled out a tendollar gold piece, and flipped it in the air. The little man snatched it with reflexes of a man half his age. He glanced at the coin. “This for a month, or you want change?”

  “No change.”

  The old man finally introduced himself. “John Milton,” he said, sticking out a gnarled hand more like a claw. “No relation.”

  “Relation to whom?”

  “You know, Paradise Lost, the poet.”

  “Not much for poetry,” Atwater said.

  “Me neither. But I always tell people. Some folks ask, and I got tired of hearing the same old jokes. So I tell ’em up front, no relation. Saves time. Course, telling you how I save time don’t save none, do it?” he cackled, tucked the gold piece in his shirt, and grabbed the reins.

  “There a good hotel in town?” Atwater asked.

  “You mean a hotel hotel or you mean a hotel henhouse?”

  “A hotel hotel, I guess.”

  “Nope.”

  “How about a clean hotel henhouse, then?”

  “Nope.”