Slaughter's way (13 page)

"You-all wouldn't do nothing like that, would you, gents?" he asked.

"We sure would," the gunman confirmed.

"Can't say as how Fd like that to happen, gennel-men," Coonsldn warned the men. "And I'm certain sure Mr. Earp wouldn't like it neither."

"Mr. Earp, huh?" grunted the gunman, coming to a halt. "You've got Mr. Earp in there?"

"I sure has, sir."

For a moment the gunman hesitated, having Yankees' regard for the prowess of a gentleman called Wyatt Earp. Then their leader gave a grunting laugh. It was as likely for Wyatt Earp to be riding in a Texan's chuck wagon as for Main Street to get up and walk away.

"If you got Mr. Earp in there," the gunman grinned, throwing a wink at his pards, "fetch him out so's we can tell him what we told you."

"You-aU sure that's what you wants, sir and gennel-men?"

*Teahr* chorused the sir and "gentlemen" mockingly. 'Tou-all bring out old Mr. Earp."

'^Anything to oblige," Coonskin replied, rising to turn and lean into the wagon. "Mr. Earp, Mr. Earp," he called. "You-all come on out now and meet these folks as wants to see you."

The gunmen watched, not knowing who to expect. Some of them expected to see a drifter who had told the gullible-looking Negro he was the famous Wyatt Earp and been believed. Others of the group wondered if the Negro was reaching for a gun and decided it would be too bad for him if he did. Certainly none of them even started to expect what Mr. Earp might be.

Coonskin straightened up, lifting something from inside the wagon, turned and placed it on the seat nearest to the bunch of gunmen. At first glance the thing he set down looked like a cat. Except that no cat had ever been bom with a sharp-pointed nose, colored black with longitudinal white stripes, and with a long plumed tail that it carried arched up over its back.

Stopping dead in their tracks, the gunmen stared at Mr. Earp with goggle-eyed horror. Not one of them even started to think it was a cat. In fact they knew for sure it definitely was not a cat, nor even a member of the cat family.

"A skunk!" one of the men yipped, taking a rapid pace to the rear.

"Don't you point that thing at me!" yelled a second man, showing a true spirit of friendship and loyalty by moving so as to protect yet a third of the group from an attack in the rear^—although the third man stood facing toward Mr. Earp.

"You-all asked to see Mr. Earp," Coonskin told them, sounding reproachful at their lack of pleasure. "Well, here he am."

For a moment the leader of the gunmen studied Coonskin and Mr. Earp, then reached what at the time seemed like a logical conclusion.

"That damned thing's had its stink-glands cut out!" he yelled, stepping forward and dropping his hand toward the butt of his gun. "I'll show you,"

And he didl

Mr. Earp made a rapid about-face movement, took aim over his shoulder and made a Har out of the gunman. Long before the man got his gun clear, Mr. Earp, showing the speed and accuracy of his namesake only used when popping holes in paper targets for visiting Eastern newspapermen, cut loose with his defense armament. The jet of evil-smelling fluid shot out and the main column struck the boaster in the face, but there was enough of a side spray to ensure that all the group caught the benefit of it.

Letting out a howl like a scalded wolf, the leader of the gunmen sprang backwards, all thoughts of burning wagons, or proving his point, forgotten. Not that any of his pards felt like objecting.

'Tfeeaghl" howled one of the bunch. "I'b gedding out ob here!"

He did not usually talk like that, but had his forefinger and thumb firmly clamped on his nose in a vain attempt to keep out the smell.

On the words, all six men turned and left the vicinity at a dead run, heading for the hotel and hoping that a hot bath might clear the stench of skunk from off their suffering bodies.

Coonskin watched the men go, then dropped a hand on Mr, Earp's back. A pained expression crossed his face as he looked down at his pet.

'^Looks like they didn't take none to you at all, Mr. Earp,*' he said. "Don't let it worry you none though, I'm still your friend. Reckon you'd best ride up here on the seat for a spell, though."

Ever since finding the skunk as a kitten, Coonskin had kept it as a pet. The J.S. cowhands gave Mr. Earp the name in honor of, and to show how they regarded, Mr. Wyatt Earp, lawman of Kansas. While the skunk was safe enough with folks it knew and even with strangers provided they did not try to enter the chuck wagon, threaten Coonskin, or attempt to draw a gun, it was likely to cut loose with its artillery should anyone break the rules.

John Slaughter left the marshal's oflBce after stand-102

ing watching the scene before the store, ready to back Coonskin up if the Negro and Mr. Earp failed to attend to matters. Crossing the street, he passed in front of the wagon and halted at the door of the store, looking at his cook.

"Let's get the supplies,'' he suggested.

"*! reckons we might at that, Mr. John," Coonskin replied.

On entering the store. Slaughter found the owner hanging onto his counter and laughing until tears ran down his face.

^'Land sakes a-mercy," gasped the businessman, wiping his eyes. "I've never seen the beat of that." He lost his laughter when Slaughter asked to buy supplies. "Shouldn't sell you none, according to Mr, Bitter-Creek Gallagher's orders. Only why should I chance refusing when said Mr. Gallagher's out of town, and his hard boys aren't here to pertect me?"

The use of the word "mister" let Slaughter know where he stood with the storekeeper. A western man did not call anybody "mister" after diey were introduced unless he disliked the other.

"Could always say I threatened you if you didn't sell," Slaughter suggested, "and lay all the blame on his boys not being here."

"Which same's just what I figure on doing," grinned the other. "What're you wanting, friend?"

While loading the supplies. Slaughter learned how Bitter-Creek Gallagher came to take over the small township. It all stemmed from the stupidity of a couple of well-meaning easterners who brought out a bunch of folks and built the town. After getting it built, they decided there would be no dangerous gun-play in their locality and produced a city ordinance banning the sale or ownership of guns in town. Fortunately for them, the Apaches had been gathered on reservations and their town did not have a suflBcient importance to attract outlaws. The storekeeper, one of the few westerners in the town, tried to point out the dangers of the no-firearms policy, but the others would not Usten. Then Bitter-Creek Gallagher arrived and offered his ser-

vices as protector of the town. The citizens agreed, only to find themselves defenseless and rnider the control of a tyrannical bully. There were three hundred male citizens in the town and Gallagher s band never exceeded ten men, but those ten men had arms and the other citizens did not. So Devil City suffered from the blind stupidity of a couple of antifirearm bigots who cleared out and left the others to the problem the moment they found out how things were going.

"I got me a few rifles and shotguns hid out, and ammunition for 'em,'' the storekeeper finished his story, helping the J.S. men to load their wagon. ''And there are some of us who'll take a chance on moving that bimch out if the other folk'U back us."

From his tone, he did not think the others were likely to supply the needed backing.

"rve just one more call to make, Coonskin," Slaughter told his cook as the Negro closed the tailboard of the wagon.

'Tes, sir, Mr. John,'' Coonskin replied. Til just sit on the box and wait until you-all gets tlu-ough."

Walking to the doors of the Bitter-Creek Saloon, Slaughter pushed open the batwing doors and entered. Only the bartender and the pianist were in the room and they looked at the Texan with frank ciuiosity.

*Tlie name's John Slaughter. Tell Gallagher when he gets back that fve bought my supphes and don't aim to pay his head tax toll. And tell him if he's got any objections to come himself instead of sending his hired men."

With that Slaughter left the room. Across the street Gosse and his deputy watched the Texan mount the black staUion and ride alongside the wagon out of town. Neither man made a move, or thought of taking up a weapon to challenge Slaughter's right to depart. Both remembered how one of the men who went to deliver Gallagher's message came back from the mission. While Slaughter might not have intended his bullet to strike the exact point it hit, neither man figured the lead went far from where it was intended to go. Slaughter had woimded the young gunman. If he needed to use his gun

again he would shoot to kill, for that was Slaughter's way.

An hour after John Slaughter and Coonsldn left Devil City, Bitter-Creek Gallagher rode in. He was barely in his room when Gosse and his boss gunman, who still retained a whiff of Mr. Earp's special perfume about him, arrived with news of the Texan's visit.

Gallagher sat at his table in the back room of the saloon, a big, heavily built man with shoulder-long pomaded hair, and a buckskin outfit that might have turned BuflFalo Bill Cody green with envy. While his gunbelt looked shiny enough to be made of patent leather, the matched pearl-handled, nickel-plated Colt Cavalry Peacemakers rode in fast-drawn holsters.

"You mean you let Slaughter come in here and buy supplies?" he bellowed, glaring at the other two men.

"Couldn't rightly stop him, Bitter-Creek," Gosse replied. Being a cousin, he knew Gallagher's name to be Horace, but nobody who Kked living would have dared to use it to the town boss's face. "Slaughter come in at the head of twenty men."

"Twenty?" Gallagher spat out, knovdng that only by leaving his herd all but untended could Slaughter bring that many men into town.

"Well, ten at least. Then Sully here and the boys tangled with that there skunk on the chuckwagon—^"

"And he means a for-real skunk, boss," Sully put in.

"It smeUs that way. Go get me the storekeeper."

The order proved to be unnecessary, for a knock sounded at the door and the storekeeper entered, a look of pohte annoyance on his face.

"Now, lookee here, Bitter-Creek,*' he said indignantly. "I don't mind you telling me not to sell supplies to folks without your say-so. But I sure do mind about getting my head shot pliunb full of windows 'cause I refused Texas John Slaughter. Where was your boys when he come in my place demanding to be served?"

Gallagher opened his mouth to snarl something out, then he closed it again. There was a hint of mockery behind the storekeeper's contrition. All too well did

Gallagher know his position of power in Devil City depended solely on his reputation for toughness. Only as long as people feared him could he retain the reins and hold the superior number of citizens under control. Ahready word of Slaughter s challenge had been spread around the town and folks waited to see if Gallagher dare take it up. Worse than that, Gallagher s own men must be thinking on the same lines as the town, wondering if their boss dare face Slaughter, or if he aimed to let them take all the risks.

"Ill see you later," he growled to the storekeeper, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. Then he looked at the other two. "WeVe got to do something about Slaughter.**

"Depends on what you want doing," Sully answered. "I tell you, Bit, after this afternoon it'll take a helluva lot to get those boys to stack up against him again."

''Let's go ask them," Gallagher snapped.

Just as Sully guessed, the other men showed no eagerness to tangle with Slaughter, in fact bordered on open mutiny to avoid doing so. Gallagher argued, threatened, cajoled, but to no avail. Not one of the men wanted to face the J.S. until their boss showed them the way by accepting Slaughter s challenge.

Back in his oflBce, Gallagher looked at Gosse and Sully. They more than any of the others stood to lose everything should the tov^Ti slip through their fingers. Yet Gosse did not care for the idea of getting involved in gun fights. In the end it was Sully who came up with a brilliant idea. When he explained it, the other two agreed it might work, in fact stood better than fair chance of working. Even Gosse took heart and waxed brave in his certainty that the plan they made must work.

A scared-looking gunman, the same who delivered Gallagher's message, rode into John Slaughters night camp as Coonskin had the trail crew howling with laughter as he described the scene when Mr. Earp made his dramatic appearance. The man rode with his arms raised and his gimbelt strapped in plain view around his saddle horn.

**Bitter-Creek says he'll be waiting for you alone in that dry-wash about two miles this side of town at ten o'clock in the morning," the man said, keeping a wary eye on his escape route. "He says bring the head tax toU money—or a gun/'

*'Tell him I'll be there," Slaughter replied.

At ten o'clock promptly John Slaughter rode his horse through the mesquite scrub and halted it on the eastern end of the half-mile-long dry-wash. This was a wide, deep gash in the ground, probably carved by the action of water from some long-gone stream. Its sides rose gently, covered in thick bushes, but the bottom, some thirty yards wide, was bare of anything but soft sand.

For a few minutes. Slaughter sat his horse, looking along the wash to where, at the other end, waited Bitter-Creek Gallagher, mounted on a fine Palomino stallion and cradling a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun on his left arm. The tov^ni boss made no attempt to move forward and he was far beyond any range where a shotgun might make a hit.

Starting his horse forward, Slaughter rode down into the wash. His cigar hung from between his hps and his hat tilted sHghtly further back on his head than usual. There was no sound save for the muffled thud of the black stallion's hooves in the sand. Still Gallagher had not made a move to start toward him.

Suddenly, and without apparent reason. Slaughter drew his Colt and threw three three fast shots into the clump of white-flowering bushes on his left side. A scream of pain rang out; the bushes shook violently; the twin barrels of a shotgun pointed up into the air and one fired as a dying man's finger closed convulsively on the trigger.