Kill Crazy (8 page)

“Johnny's right. Sometimes when you get drunk you say things you don't mean to be sayin',” Short said. “The last thing we need is for somebody to get drunk and start talkin' about the job we just pulled.”

“It's not only the talkin',” Johnny warned. “Drunk, or sober, if you start spendin' money like it's water, you'll give us away.”

“Don't worry, I ain't goin' to spend all my money in some place like Chugwater,” Calhoun said. “I'm goin' to save it, and maybe after another job or two like Johnny was saying, why, I'll go to Denver, or maybe San Francisco or some such place where I can live like a king and nobody will ever suspect a thing.”

“I tell you what I'm goin' to do,” Short said. “I'm goin' to buy me a saloon someplace. And have me some whores workin' there. Then I can have all the beer and whiskey I want to drink anytime I get thirsty, and all the whores I want, anytime I get to wantin' me a woman.”

“Not me,” Evans said. “I'm goin' back to Scott County, Missouri, and buy a farm and be one of the bigwigs in the county.”

“All right,” Johnny said. “But there ain't none of them plans goin' to come true if anyone does something stupid in town that will get us found out.”

“Can we drink some, and whore some?” Short asked.

Johnny smiled. “I don't know about you boys, but I sure plan to,” he said.

“Ha! Now you're talkin'!” Calhoun said.

“Hey, what about our hats?” Evans asked.

“What about 'em?” Short asked.

“We was all wearin' these same hats when we was in town last. Someone might recognize 'em.”

“Leave the hats here,” Johnny said.

“I ain't goin' to go around without no hat to wear,” Short said.

“What the hell you worryin' about, Al?” Johnny asked. “You got money. Buy yourself a new hat.”

“Yeah,” Short said, as if just realizing that. “Yeah, I'm goin' to get me a new hat.”

“We'll all get new hats,” Evans said.

“And new shirts, seein' as I just buried the only other shirt I got,” Calhoun said.

Chapter Eleven

Down at the mortuary, Tom Nunnelee had just finished preparing Danny Welch's body. Mrs. Welch was too distraught to come to the mortuary, so Mrs. Adams, a neighbor, had brought Welch's finest suit. Welch was well known and much liked around town, so Nunnelee took his time with him. Not until he was finished with Welch, and the cleaned-up and embalmed body was lying in a red, felt-lined, black lacquer coffin, did Nunnelee turn his attention to the robber who had been killed.

“Well now, Mr. Jackson,” Tom Nunnelee said. “What do you think about robbing our bank now? Still think it was a good idea, do you?”

Nunnelee washed away the blood from the entry wound at the back of Jackson's head, and from the exit wound just under his left eye. He did not embalm the body, because it would be buried by tomorrow.

Once he had Jackson cleaned up, he strapped the body to a board and stood him up in front of his establishment. Jackson's arms were crossed over his chest, and his pistol was placed in his right hand. That done, he printed a sign to post above the body.

Shortly after Nunnelee stood Jackson's body up in front of his funeral parlor, citizens of the town began to gather around in morbid curiosity. Ken Dysart, who owned a photography studio, saw an economic opportunity, and he set up his tripod and camera, then posted a sign.

Moe Kitteridge, a cowboy from a nearby ranch, stood there looking at the body for a moment, and Nunnelee called out to him, “Mister, would you like to have your picture taken standing beside this outlaw? It's just a quarter.”

Kitteridge smiled, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Why not?”

“For ten cents more, you can hold your gun while you are standing alongside him.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Kitteridge asked. “Hell, ever'body knows it was Duff MacCallister what shot him.”

“Yes, everyone in this town knows that now,” Dysart said. “But think about this. You can pass this photo down to your grandson, and he can pass it down to his grandson, and a hundred years or so from now, your great-great-grandchildren will be showing this picture to their friends, and telling the story of how you were the one that killed this notorious outlaw.”

“Yeah,” Kitteridge said, a broad smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, that's true, ain't it? A hunnert years from now, there ain't nobody goin' to know no better as to who kilt him, and all my kin will think it was me.”

“Do you need a pistol?” Dysart asked, offering his.

“Nah, I got my own,” Kitteridge said, drawing his pistol from the holster. The pistol was of dull gray steel, with wooden pistol grips. One of the pistol grips was only half there, the other half broken off.

“That gun?” Dysart asked. “You really want your great-great-grandchildren to think that was the best you could do? I mean, if you are posing for a picture, you need something like this.”

Dysart picked up a silver-coated pistol with mother-of-pearl handles. “This is what you want,” he said.

“Yeah,” Kitteridge agreed, taking the gun in hand. “Yeah, this looks good.”

Kitteridge stood beside the body, but Dysart, ever the director of his little drama tableau, posed him so that his left hand was held across his heart, while his right hand was crooked at the elbow, pistol pointing up.

“Don't be smiling,” Dysart said. “This is no joke, you have just killed, in a deadly shoot-out, one of the most desperate criminals in the West. Give me a grimace.”

Kitteridge reacted as told, and when Dysart thought the pose was just right, he took the picture.

 

 

As the commotion continued around Julius Jackson's body, Dr. Urban was down at the jail treating the flesh wound Emile Taylor had received.

“Unfortunately, he'll live,” Dr. Urban said when he finished examining Emile Taylor.

“Unfortunately?” Emile said. “I'll live and you say unfortunately? What kind of doctor are you?”

“The kind of doctor who just lost his life savings in the bank holdup you pulled,” Dr. Urban said.

“Yeah, he'll live. But only until we hang him,” Marshal Ferrell said. “Thanks, Doc, for comin' to see him.”

“I'd rather see him the way I saw the other man,” Dr. Urban said. “Dead.”

“I expect you'll see him that way soon enough,” Marshal Ferrell said. “According to Duff and Mr. Caldwell, Emile here is the one who killed Mr. Welch. Which means that once we have this fella's trial, I don't reckon it'll be too long before we hang him.”

“You'll need someone to sign the death certificate,” Dr. Urban said. He looked over toward Emile. “And, Mr. Taylor, that is a task I am looking forward to.”

 

 

Six miles out of town, at the farm of Clyde Barnes, twelve-year-old Jimmy Barnes was out at the pump, drawing a bucket of water, when he saw a horse come trotting in. With a broad smile and a shout, he dropped the bucket and ran into the house.

“Pa! Ma! Harry has come back!”

“What?” Mr. Barnes said.

“It's Harry. He's come back. Come look!”

Clyde and Ruby Barnes and their daughter, Helen, followed Jimmy back outside. They saw their horse, Harry, drinking thirstily from the water trough.

“It is Harry,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Where in the world do you think he's been?”

“I don't know,” Mr. Barnes said. He walked up to Harry and began rubbing the animal behind the ear. The horse nodded his head in appreciation.

“I thought you said he was stole,” Jimmy said.

“I thought he was. I can't imagine him just running off. But here he is, come back home. I'd better get him in the barn. Jimmy, get him a bag of oats. There's no tellin' where he's been, but like as not he's hungry.”

Half an hour later, Jimmy and his father were in the barn. Harry was back in his stall, and Mr. Barnes was looking him over to make certain he hadn't been injured in anyway during his absence.

Suddenly the barn door was kicked open and three armed men came running in.

“Get your hands up!” one of the men shouted.

“What is this? Are you robbing me? I don't have any cash money,” Mr. Barnes said.

“Oh? What did you do with the money you stole from the bank this mornin'?” the leader of the three armed men said.

“What are you talking about? I didn't steal any money from the bank. I ain't left the house this livelong day!”

“Don't lie to us, mister. We tracked your horse here from the bank.”

Barnes and his son looked at each other for a moment; then the confused expression left Barnes's face.

“I'll be damn,” he said. “That's where Harry was.”

 

 

By midafternoon the four horses that had taken part in the bank robbery had all been tracked to neighboring ranches and farms. And because all four owners of the horses had substantially the same story, Marshal Ferrell was predisposed to believe them.

“I still got two horses missing,” Sam Dumey said. “One is a paint gelding, the other is a bay.”

“Mr. Dumey, we have two horses out back that sound like that,” Marshal Ferrell said. “The two robbers who didn't get away were riding them. Maybe you'd like to take a look.”

Dumey followed Marshal Ferrell out back to the lean-to that served as a temporary shelter anytime someone who owned a horse was in jail.

“Damn!” Dumey said. “That's them, all right! Vick and Dandy!”

“Can we have our horses back now?” Dumey asked.

Marshal Ferrell nodded, then went back into his office, where his deputies, Willie Pierce and Frank Mullins, were drinking coffee.

“Seems like we got us a smart bunch this time,” Marshal Ferrell said as he poured himself a cup. “These boys stole horses for the robbery, then set 'em loose after they got away. That sent us trackin' down the horses while they got away clean.”

“That's smart, all right,” Pierce said.

Marshal Ferrell heard voices coming from the back, and he looked at his two deputies in confusion. “Who's that talking back there?” he asked. “I thought we let everyone go but Taylor.”

“We did,” Mullins said. “Schumacher is back there talking to Taylor.”

“Schumacher? What's he doing back there?”

“Turns out they are friends. Schumacher says he met Taylor a couple of days ago, and he thought he might be able to get something out of him.”

Marshal Ferrell put his cup down, then stepped through the door that separated the office area from the two jail cells.

“Schumacher?” he called. “What are you doin' back there?”

“Just havin' a conversation with the prisoner is all,” Schumacher replied. “It ain't nothin' I've never done before.”

“That's when you were a deputy. You aren't a deputy anymore and you got no business bein' back there.”

“Let's just say I'm having a friendly visit.”

“You were here long enough. You know the rules. You want to have a visit, you come between two and three in the afternoon.”

“I hear you found out about us stealin' horses to pull off the bank robbery,” Emile said. “That was pretty smart, don't you think?”

“You think it was smart, do you?” Ferrell asked.

“Yeah, I think it was smart. I mean, you wasn't able to track us down now, were you?”

“Taylor, has it dawned on you that we don't have to track you down? Here you are, in our jail, and here you will stay until we hang you.”

The smile left Emile's face as he realized the truth of what Ferrell was saying.

“Come on, Schumacher, let's go,” Ferrell said.

“Francis, come back and see me at two this afternoon,” Emile called to Schumacher as he and the marshal were leaving. “And bring me some tobacco.”

 

 

When Marshal Ferrell and Schumacher returned to the front office where the deputies were still drinking coffee, none of them paid any attention to the four horsemen who were riding by at that moment. The lawmen had no way of knowing that the men they were looking for were no more than one hundred feet away from him at that very moment.

 

 

Johnny Taylor, Clay Calhoun, Bart Evans, and Al Short rode slowly, quietly, looking straight ahead so as not to draw any attention to themselves. As they continued on down the street, they passed by the undertaker's establishment where the crowd had gathered around Julius Jackson's body. All four men glanced toward the gruesome display, but they continued to ride by until they reached the Chugwater Mercantile. Here, they dismounted.

“That ain't right, them havin' Julius standin' up there like that for ever'one to gawk at,” Short said.

“It ain't botherin' Julius none,” Calhoun said.

Evans laughed. “Yeah, I guess you got that right,” he said.

“Johnny, you reckon they got hats and shirts in this store?” Short asked.

“Look at the sign,” Johnny said, pointing to the painted sign in the window. “It says goods for all mankind. What kind of goods would that be, if he didn't have hats and shirts?”

 

 

Fred Matthews had three store clerks, but all three were busy when the four men came in so, putting on his best “salesman's smile,” he walked over to greet them himself.

“Yes, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“We just rode into town,” Johnny said. “And we noticed there was a body propped up back in front of one of the stores. Who is it?”

“That is the late but unlamented Julius Jackson. There were six men who held up our bank this morning. Four of them got away. He is one of the two who didn't get away.”

“You said two of 'em didn't get away. Where is the other one at?” Johnny asked. “Is he dead too?”

“No, not yet. Emile Taylor is his name. We've got him in jail, now, and he's the one who gave us the Julius Jackson name.”

“What do you mean, he ain't dead yet?”

“Turns out that the very one we got is the same one who has already been identified as the one who killed the bank teller. So, like I said, he isn't dead yet, but I expect he will be before long, because soon as we get him tried and found guilty, we will hang him.”

“Has he told you any of the other names?” Evans asked.

“He didn't tell us any more names, but we know two of them.” Matthews chuckled. “That's because they were so dumb as to call each other by name. Or at least, two of them did. We know that one is Clay Calhoun, and we believe the other one is Johnny Taylor. I say believe, because we only heard the first name, Johnny, being used, but seeing as how we have Emile Taylor, and Johnny is his brother, we're pretty sure that's who it is.”

“How bad hurt is this fella that you've got?” Johnny asked. “Is he shot real bad?”

“How did you know he was shot?”

“Well, if two of 'em didn't get away, and one of 'em was kilt, seems only normal that you wouldn't have caught the other one unless he was shot too.”

“”Yes, I guess that makes sense. Well, he isn't bad hurt at all. Now,” Matthews said, ever the businessman. “I'm pretty sure you gentlemen didn't come in here just to get the latest news. So, what can I do for you?”