Town Tamers (3 page)

C
ru
sty was nearest to her, and he thrust out both hands and said, “Just you hold on there, Mrs. Sykes.”

“You murdered my man,” Myrtle said, her cheeks flushed with fury. She closed one eye and squinted down the short barrel with the other eye at Bull Cumberland’s broad face. “Someone should have done this a long time ago.”

“Why, Myrtle,” Bull said. “I never knew you didn’t like me.”

“No one does, you dumb ox. You act like you’re God Almighty, doing as you please and the rest of the world be damned. You’ve shot how many people? Robbed how many?” Myrtle glanced at her husband’s body, and a tear trickled from her eye. “Now my poor Ed.”

Bull hadn’t finished reloading. He was holding his pistol with the barrel pointed at the ground and had a cartridge in his other hand. “Maybe we should talk this out.”

“Talk?” Myrtle said, and more tears flowed. “You want to
talk
when you’ve just done murdered my man? The only talk you deserve is this.” She stopped shaking and curled her finger around the trigger.

“Ma’am—” Crusty tried to intervene.

“Shut up, you jug head.”

That was when Tyree Lucas threw the rock he still held. It hit Myrtle on the shoulder, and she swung toward him just as Jake Bass appeared out of nowhere, his six-shooter in front of him, fanning three swift shots.

The slugs smashed into her chest and jolted her onto her heels. Her teary eyes widened, and she fell across her husband, convulsed a few times, and was still.

“Damn,” Crusty said. “Now I won’t get that dance.”

Jake Bass stood over Myrtle and nudged her with his boot. “She had spunk. She and her rooster, both. Ain’t many folks will stand up to us like that.”

“You saw the whole thing?” Bull asked.

“I did.”

“You took your sweet time shootin’ her.”

“I wanted to be sure,” Jake Bass said. “I needed to be in close.” He chuckled. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

Bull inserted the cartridge into the cylinder of his Smith & Wesson, stepped over to the bodies, pressed his revolver to the back of Myrtle’s head, and shot her again.

“What in hell was that for?” Crusty said. “She was already dead.”

“She pointed a gun at me.”

People were gathering. A woman wailed. A man quietly swore. A little girl was among them, and she pressed against her mother’s nightgown and set to sobbing.

“So much for a frolic,” Crusty said.

Bull glared at the half ring of scared and hateful faces. “I have half a mind to burn this town down.”

“Where would we drink?” Old Tom asked.

“There’s not another town for a hundred miles,” Crusty said.

Bull Cumberland slid his Smith & Wesson into his holster and put his big hands on his hips. “Listen, you folks. They shouldn’t have done what they did. All we wanted was to have some fun, and they came out loaded for bear.”

From among the crowd a woman timidly said, “You shot them both down like dogs.”

“It was me shot the old hen,” Jake Bass said.

Bull scowled and motioned. “All of you might as well go back to bed. No one’s in the mood now.”

“I am,” Crusty said.

Bull pushed him aside and made for the saloon but had only taken a couple of steps when he saw the new bartender in the shadows, staring at the bodies. “You have somethin’ to say?”

“No,” Byron said.

“You don’t look like you like it.”

“Who would?” Byron replied.

“Things happen. They lost their heads and did what they shouldn’t.”

Byron lifted his gaze from the sprawled forms. “You want me to set up a round for your outfit?”

“No,” Bull said. “We’re headin’ back to the Circle K.”

“We are?” Old Tom said.

“Mr. Knox will want to know,” Bull said, with a nod at the Sykeses. “In case anyone gets the notion to go skulkin’ to the law.”

“Who would?” Crusty said. “They’d be as good as dead and know it.”

Bull walked on with the rest of the Circle K riders trailing after him. They mounted their horses, reined from the hitch rails, and rode off with the air of men whom life had treated unfairly by spoiling their frolic.

“Scum,” a townswoman said.

“Someone fetch Sam,” a man said, referring to the undertaker. “He’ll see to the bodies.”

Tandy emerged from the saloon and walked over to stand next to Byron. “I told you.”

“You did,” Byron said.

“You’ve seen this before, I take it?”

“Too many times.”

“You’ll get word to him?”

“Don’t need to. He’ll be here in three days.”

“That soon?”

“Once he takes a job, he doesn’t waste time,” Byron said.

“Does he always send you on ahead?”

“Usually. I scout the lay of the land, so to speak.” Byron looked around them. “‘And sunk are the voices that sounded in mirth, and empty the goblet, and dreary the hearth.’”

“What was that? More of that poet fellow?”

“Lord Byron.”

“How many poets do you know?”

“A few, but I know the most about him.”

“I don’t know any.” Tandy let out a loud sigh. “I can’t believe I’m talking poets with those bodies lying there. They were good, sweet people.”

Byron didn’t say anything.

“Once he’s here, how long, do you reckon, before he gets the job done?”

“Before he kills everybody?” Byron let out a sigh of his own. “Not long at all.”

A
sa Delaware winced when the wheels hit a rut. His back didn’t take long stagecoach rides well anymore. A cloud of dust swirled in, and he breathed shallow and pulled his derby lower against the glare of the afternoon sun.

“Let me guess, friend,” said the passenger across from him who had been trying to engage Asa in conversation. “You’re a drummer, like me.”

“No,” Asa said.

“We dress the same.”

Asa looked at him. The man was heavyset with sagging jowls and a suit that had seen better days, worn slovenly. Asa’s was new and had been freshly pressed before he got on the stage in Austin. The other man’s derby was dirty. Asa’s was spotless save for the dust. On the seat beside Asa was his slicker, neatly folded, while propped against his leg was a custom-made soft leather case with ties at both ends.

“Yes, sir,” the slovenly drummer said. “You sure look like a drummer, even if you’re not.”

“We all look like something,” Asa said.

“If you don’t mind my saying,” the drummer said, “you also look part Injun.”

“Do I?” Asa said coldly.

The drummer blinked and sat up. “I didn’t mean any insult, friend. Your face. Your skin. That black hair, even with the gray streaks.”

“I know what I look like.”

For a while the drummer was silent, and Asa was grateful.

The only other passenger was a woman in her twenties who sat with her hands folded in her lap and must have gnawed on her lip a hundred times. Brown curls poked from under her bonnet. Her eyes were brown, too. She hadn’t uttered a word in hours, but now she cleared her throat.

“Both of you gentlemen are bound for Ludlow, I take it?”

The drummer brightened and smoothed his jacket, as if that would help his appearance. “Why, yes, my dear. I am. I believe I told you earlier that I sell ladies’ corsets.”

“You did, Mr. Finch.”

“And your name is Sykes, wasn’t it?”

“Madeline Sykes. I’m on my way home to visit my mother and father.”

“Ah, well.” Finch did more smoothing and somehow contrived to slide closer to her. “Perhaps you’ll permit me to interest you in one? They’re made of the finest cotton, and the busk is ivory. Two-piece, not one, for the comfort of the wearer. When we reach Ludlow, if you’d like, you can try one on and—”

Madeline Sykes held up a hand. “I don’t wear corsets, Mr. Finch.”

“Why not? They’re all the fashion.”

“For some,” Madeline said.

Finch winked at her. “A small waist, my dear, draws the male eye. It accents the bosom and the thighs, and—”

“That’s enough about thighs,” Asa said.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Finch said.

“You heard me.”

Finch coughed, opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, and finally said, “I’m only trying to make a living. If you were knowledgeable about the fine art of salesmanship, you’d know that a product’s selling points are important.”

“Make all the points you want,” Asa said, “without talking about her thighs.”

Madeline gave him a warm smile. “I thank you for your kindness.”

“All I was saying—” Finch began, and was again interrupted when Madeline raised her hand a second time.

“Mr. Finch, I’ll be frank. I hate corsets. I hate what they do to women. I hate that women think they must wear them to be attractive. I hate that men use them as a way to control us.”

Finch’s expression was almost comical. “Just hold on, young lady. This is my livelihood we’re talking about.”

“Are you aware that your livelihood has caused a lot of women to lose their babies? That those ivory busks you boast about can cause internal bleeding?”

“So
some
claim,” Finch said defensively.

“Are you also aware that a woman’s normal blood pressure in pounds per square inch without a corset is 3.5 but that with a corset the pressure is reduced to only 1.65?”

“How in the world would you know that?”

“And that in many instances, the pressure your corsets apply to internal organs has been measured at over seventy pounds.”

“I ask you again, madam,” Finch said, “how do you know all that?”

“I’m studying to be a physician.”

“Excuse me?”

“A doctor, Mr. Finch. You have heard of them?”

“A
lady
doctor?” Finch said incredulously.

“It surprises you?”

“A woman’s place is in the home. Everyone knows that.”

Madeline Sykes had her dander up, and jabbed a finger at him. “Your corsets, sir, are an abomination. Women have been fed the lie that if they wear them, men will fall over themselves to woo them. No mention is ever made of the potential harm to a woman’s health. Were it up to me, I would have a law passed to ban them.”

“Now see here, young lady,” Finch said.

That was when he placed his hand on her knee.

A
sa Delaware snapped his right arm up, and a black-handled Remington derringer filled his hand. With lightning speed he pressed it to the drummer’s forehead. “Take your hand off her, or die.”

Finch’s eyes nearly crossed as he gawked at the derringer, and then he jerked his fleshy hand off Madeline Sykes’s leg. “Here, now,” he bleated. “There’s no call for that.”

Asa sat back. He slid the derringer up his sleeve and deftly fitted it into the wrist rig he’d had made to his specifications.

“Thank you,” Madeline said.

Finch had turned pale. “I resent your behavior, sir. I resent it very much.”

“Don’t take liberties, then,” Asa said.

“Who do you think you are, shoving a gun in people’s faces? I have half a mind to report you to the marshal when we get to Ludlow.”

“There isn’t one,” Madeline said.

“Well, I still resent it.” Anger had smothered Finch’s fear. “You saw what he did,” he said to Madeline. “And all I did was touch you. Where’s the harm in that?”

“I didn’t ask to be touched,” Madeline said.

Finch focused his ire on Asa. “I ask you again, who do you think you are? If you’re not a drummer, what are you? A gambler? Is that why you have a hideout?”

“I don’t gamble . . . with cards,” Asa said.

“Do you have a name? Or is it presumptuous of me to ask? I wouldn’t want that gun shoved in my face again.”

“There is a name I use.”

“How do you ‘use’ a name? Or are you on the dodge and afraid to say?”

“It’s Asa Delaware.”

“Well, Mr. Delaware, let me tell you a thing or two about—” Finch stopped again, and blinked. “Wait. Did you say Asa
Delaware
?”

“You’re sitting right there,” Asa said.

Finch became paler still. He glanced at the leather case with the ties at both ends, and beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I can take it out and we can see.”

“No,” Finch said. “No, that’s all right.” He moved away from Madeline until he was against the side. “Asa Delaware, by God.”

“I’m sorry,” Madeline said to Asa. “I know you wanted to keep it a secret and I was to pretend I don’t know you.”

“For your own safety,” Asa said.

“Wait,” Finch said. “You two are acquainted?”

Madeline Sykes nodded.

“Ah,” Finch said, looking confused. His eyes narrowed, a lecherous cast marked his face, and he said again, louder, “Ah.”

Asa placed the leather case on his lap. He untied one end then the other, slid his hand inside, and brought out the shotgun. It was a beautiful weapon, a Winchester lever-action altered to meet his special needs. The wood was black walnut, the stock shortened to half its original length. The barrel had been sawed off to where it was barely an inch longer than the tube magazine. Every piece of metal, from the barrel to the magazine to the receiver and the lever, were bright black, not blued, and without a scratch or nick. Jacking the lever to feed a 12-gauge shell into the chamber, Asa pointed it at the drummer’s head. “Say ‘ah’ one more time.”

Finch tried to wilt into the seat. “Here, now! You can’t keep shoving guns in people’s faces.”

“Only yours,” Asa said. He shifted the shotgun so the barrel rested on his shoulder. “That’s twice you’ve insulted her. One more time will be the last.”

“Damn it, man,” Finch blustered. “I don’t care who you are. You don’t have the right to threaten a person.”

“I can do more than threaten.”

Finch went to respond, and Madeline quickly said, “I’d hush up, were I you. I’ve only known Mr. Delaware a short while, but I’ve learned he’s a man of principle.”

“High-handed, is what he is,” Finch grumbled.

Madeline stared at the shotgun. “The newspaper said you use a scattergun.”

“Used to, I did,” Asa said. “But they only hold two shots.” He touched his cheek to the Winchester. “This can hold five.”

“Why not use a rifle? I don’t know a lot about guns, but I know they can hold a lot more.”

“A rifle puts a hole in a man,” Asa said. “A shotgun blows him in half.”

“But a rifle can shoot a lot farther,” Madeline persisted. “Wouldn’t that be better?”

“Most of my work is close-up.”

“Work,” Finch said, and snorted. “Is that what you call it? You kill people for a living, for God’s sake.”

“No,” Asa said. “I tame towns.”