Savage Sunday, page 7
“Macbeth is a good play,” Duff said.
“You know Macbeth?” Meagan asked.
Duff smiled. “What Scotsman doesn’t know Macbeth?” He began speaking, projecting as if on stage.
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
Meagan laughed and clapped her hands appreciatively. “Oh, you do know it. I thought you might. I hope you don’t mind seeing it again.”
“Nae, why should I mind? You can listen to music more than once, so watching a good play more than once is nae different.”
“Thank you for agreeing to go to the play. I was afraid I might have to find some way to bribe you into going.”
“Aye, perhaps it would take a bribe.”
Meagan put her hand on his arm and smiled salaciously. “Oh, I had planned on it as a bribe or a reward.”
“And just when will I be collecting on this bargain you have made?”
“In time,” Meagan promised. “But right now, I have more shopping to do.”
“All right, you go ahead and shop. I think I’ll spend some time in the Cattlemen’s Club.”
As Duff walked from the hotel to the club, he saw four men riding down the middle of Sixteenth Street. Though he had no way of knowing, they were the same men to whom belonged the revolver cylinders he had left at the police station earlier.
He also saw Lonesome John carrying a large sack over his shoulder, headed for the livery stable. From the way he was walking and handling the sack, Duff realized it must be heavy.
“Hello, John, would you be for needing help with the bag?”
“Mr. MacCallister. No, thank you, sir. I think I have the task well in hand.”
“Speaking of hands, how is yours?”
John chuckled and held out his hand, showing the small bandage. “It was a clean shot you made, Mr. MacCallister, all gun, and little hand. You are quite a marksman.”
“I thank you for the compliment, lad.”
“No, I’m the one who should be thankful. It was the skillful way you engaged your pistol that stood between a hand barely scratched and one that could be mangled.”
“’Tis hoping, I am, that we never find ourselves in a similar situation,” Duff said.
John’s laugh was self-deprecating. “I have learned my lesson, Mr. MacCallister. I will never again put myself in such a position with anyone.”
“’Tis good that you take it in such a way.”
“Yes, sir,” John replied. He patted the heavy sack on his shoulder. “I’d better get to the stable with these oats. I’ve a lot of hungry horses as my guests.”
The four men who had ridden by MacCallister without particular notice were Lou Martell, Gabe Kellis, Deekus Carlotti, and Emmet Willard. They had come to Cheyenne to retrieve the cylinders to their pistols.
“Say, Lou, do you think the police will give us back them cylinders that the Chinaman took offen us?” Carlotti asked.
“Yeah, I been wonderin’ ’bout that, too,” Kellis said.
“Don’t worry bout it. I got it all figured out,” Martell said.
“What? How you goin’ to get ’em back?”
“You just let me handle that,” Martell said.
“I hope you got it figured out, ’cause right up there’s the police station, ’n these guns ain’t worth a bucket of mud when they don’t have no cylinders in ’em,” Willard said.
The four men dismounted in front of the police station, then went inside. A police sergeant looked up at them, surprised to see so many come in at the same time.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.
“They’s supposed to be four pistol cylinders here for us,” Martell said.
“What makes you think that?”
“My name is Roy Carter. I own a small spread up near Bordeaux. I had a man workin’ for me by the name of Smith, but I fired the no ’count. Somehow, he got a-holt of the cylinder from my pistol ’n from three others. He left me a note sayin’ we could pick ’em at the police station here in Cheyenne. Now, are they here, or was he a-lyin’ to me?”
The police sergeant chuckled. “They’re here all right. I have to tell you, some of us have been wondering why they showed up here. Wait for a minute ’n I’ll get ’em for you.”
Five minutes later, with the cylinders back in their pistols, Martell and the others left the police station. Shortly thereafter, he and the other three men were riding north on the Walbach road just north of Cheyenne. They had no particular sense of purpose or destination.
“Lou, we got to get us some money,” Carlotti said. “I ain’t hardly got enough to buy more ’n a couple o’ beers.”
“Yeah, I thought we was sposed to get twenty-five thousand dollars for capturin’ or killin’ that Chinaman,” Kellis said. “Only we didn’t get no money on account of we didn’t do it.”
“You want to go back and try again?” Martell asked.
“Hell no. If you’re goin’ back after that chink, you can go without me,” Willard said. “I don’t want nothin’ no more to do with ’im.”
“Yeah, well you don’t have to worry none about that, ’cause we ain’t goin’ after him again,” Martell said.
“All right, but we need to come up with some other way to get us some money,” Carlotti said.
“You say that like I could just—” Martell stopped in midsentence and smiled. “Boys, here comes our bank.”
“What do you mean, here comes our bank?”
“There’s a stagecoach comin’ up the road. We’re goin’ to rob it.”
“It prob’ly ain’t carryin’ no money,” Kellis said. “Most o’ the money shipments goes by train now.”
“How much money do you have?” Martell asked.
“I don’t know. Two, maybe three dollars.”
“I’m damn sure the stagecoach is carryin’ more money than that.”
“How do we do it?” Willard asked.
“The coach is comin’ this way, we’ll just ride up the road real casual like, ’n when we actual meet up with the coach, we’ll stop it.”
* * *
It was said of Chance Lane that he was the best driver on the South Wyoming Stage Line, and many said he was probably the best in all of Wyoming. He had a real good touch with the reins and could make a six-horse team respond to his bidding with only the slightest application.
Lane’s shotgun guard, Jed Lucas, had just announced that this was his last trip. He was quitting.
“Why are you quitting?”
“I’m quittin’ ’cause I get bored just sittin’ here, ridin’ back ’n forth. It ain’t the same with you. You’re drivin’, ’n that gives you something to do, but I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”
“What else are you goin’ to do?” Lane asked. “You got ’ny thing in mind?”
“I thought I’d see iffen maybe I could get me a job on the railroad. Hell, the railroad is goin’ ever’where now. I wouldn’t be surprised if purty soon there won’t be no stagecoaches goin’ nowhere.”
“Well, they ain’t built no railroad to Walbach yet, ’n until they do, they’ll be needin’ stagecoaches.”
“Yeah, I reckon you’re right. Hey, Chance, look at them four men comin’ toward us. They’re all spread out across the road. How come they ain’t got out of our way?”
“I don’t know. It is some peculiar,” Lane said.
Martell and the other three men were spread all the way across the road, effectively blocking the passage of the stagecoach. They continued toward the coach until they could hear the sounds of it approaching, the hoof-beats of six horses, the squeaks and rattles of the coach rocking on the thoroughbrace, and the occasional shouts of the driver.
“Hey, it’s got a shotgun guard,” Carlotti said. “That’s good, ain’t it? That means it’s carryin’ some money.”
“It could be.”
The four men approached the coach casually, so as not to cause the driver any alarm.
As they came in contact with the coach, Martell called out, “Now!”
At his command, all four men raised their pistols, pointing them at the driver and the shotgun guard.
“Here, what is this?” the driver called.
“What does it look like, mister? It’s a holdup,” Martell replied.
“The hell you say!” Jed shouted, raising his shotgun.
All four of the stagecoach robbers fired at him, and three of them hit him. One of the bullets plunged into his heart and he was killed instantly.
“What’s goin’ on out there?” a passenger called out from inside the coach.
Martell fired at the coach, hitting the top of the door. “It ain’t nothin’ none of you needs to be a-worryin’ about,” he called back. “You folks just stay in the coach, lessen you’re wantin’ to be kilt.”
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere,” a frightened voice replied from inside.
“Throw down your strongbox,” Martell ordered the driver.
“I ain’t carryin’ no strongbox. All I got is a messenger pouch.”
“Throw it down.”
“What do you want it for?”
“Don’t argue with me, driver, just throw down the damn bag.”
The driver threw the canvas bag down.
“All right, you can go now,” Martell said.
“You kilt Jed,” the driver said.
“Yes, and we’ll kill you if you don’t get on out of here now,” Martell replied.
The driver snapped the whip over the team, the pop as loud as a pistol shot. “Hee-yah!” he called out, and the team jerked ahead. Martell and the other three watched the coach drive away.
“What’s in that messenger pouch?” Carlotti asked.
Martell opened the pouch and looked inside. “Damn!”
“What is it?”
“There ain’t nothin’ here but a bunch o’ letters.” He held the pouch upside down, dumping the mail. “No money.”
“Why was they carryin’ a shotgun guard for?” Kellis asked.
“Yeah, ’n why did the damn driver throw down on us, if he didn’t have nothin’ to guard?” Martell tossed the pouch aside.
When it hit the ground, Carlotti started shooting at it. Kellis began shooting at it as well, then Willard and Martell. They fired several rounds, laughing as the bullets punched holes in the bag, and pushed it around.
“Let’s go,” Martell said. “It’s prob’ly best we don’t stay aroun’ here no more.”
“What are we goin’ to do for money?” Carlotti asked.
“I don’t know. We’ll come up with somethin’. Just give me some time to think about it,” Martell said. “But the first thing I’m goin’ to do is find me a saloon ’n have a drink.”
“Yeah, sounds like a pretty good idea to me,” Kellis said, “but where will we go? We can’t go back into Cheyenne. Not now, ’cause that’s where the stagecoach was a-headin’.”
“Lookie there,” Carlotti said, pointing to a sign on the side of the road—HILLSDALE, 8 MILES. “Why don’t we go there?”
“That sounds about as good as anyplace else,” Martell said.
Chapter Ten
Just under an hour later, the four men dismounted in front of the Sundown Saloon, pushed through swinging batwing doors, then stepped up to the bar. It wasn’t any cooler in the saloon, but at least it gave them a respite from the sun they had been riding in for the last two days.
Martell took his beer, then turned around so his back was to the bar and began looking around. It was no different from any other saloon he had been in. The main room, deeper than it was wide, held a scattering of tables, most occupied. Three percentage girls were working the tables. A scarred, upright piano was at the rear of the saloon, though nobody was playing it.
“Hey, what the hell?” Carlotti asked. “There’s a colored man back there. He ain’t got no business bein’ in—”
“Hold it, Carlotti,” Martell said, holding out his hand. “I know that fella.”
“You know the colored man?”
“No, but I know one of the men with him. Me ’n him has did some business together.” With a big smile on his face, and carrying his beer with him, Martell went over to the table.
Two of the men looked up toward him, the expressions on their faces showing irritation at being disturbed.
The man Martell knew stood up with a broad smile on his face. “Lou Martell,” he said, extending his hand.
“Hello, Bart.”
“Boys, this is Lou Martell,” Bart said. “Me ’n him done us a couple of jobs together. Lou, this here is Moe Conyers, that’s Slim Gardner.”
“This colored man with you?” Martell asked.
“Yeah, he is, ’n he’s a pretty good man, too. I don’t know what his real name is, but he’s callin’ hisself Black Lib.”
“Black Lib?”
“Actually, Mr. Martell, the name is Black Liberty, but I will answer to Black Lib.”
“That your real name?”
“I don’t see no need for nobody to know my real name, seein’ as I’m gettin’ along just fine as Black Lib.”
Martell nodded. “That’s good enough for me. Bart, these here is my pards.” He motioned the other three over to join him and pointed them out as he called their names. “The big ’un there is Deekus Carlotti. The ugly one with the scar on his face is Gabe Kellis. Emmet Willard is the scrawny one, but don’t let him bein’ sort of scrawny like that give you no wrong ideas, ’cause he’s fast as greased lightnin’, ’n kin shoot a flea offen the hind leg of a dog from fifty feet away.”
“What are you doin’ in Hillsdale?” Bart asked.
“Well, truth is, I come lookin’ for you. I told my boys you was the best there ever was at findin’ ways to make money, ’n I was hopin’ you might have a job we could do.”
Bart stroked his chin. “Is that a fact?”
“Well, yeah, but if them boys you got with you is enough, I reckon we can find somethin’ on our own.”
“No, now wait a minute,” Bart said, holding up his hand. “It may just be that havin’ twice as many men might make a job a little easier.”
“Yeah, ’n it would mean we got to split the money eight ways, too,” Moe said.
“Don’t you be worryin’ none about that,” Bart said. “With twice as many men, our jobs could be a lot bigger than anything we’ve done so far so that even a eight-way split will give us more money.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right,” Conyers said.
“All right, Lou, if you ’n your pards wants to join up with us, how ’bout you come along with us to a cabin we got nearby?”
“Sounds good to me,” Martell said, without seeking the affirmation of any of his men.
He and his men joined the others for one beer then followed Bart and his men out of town.
“We goin’ toward Cheyenne? ’Cause if you are, me ’n the others had better go someplace else,” asked Martell.
“What’s wrong with goin’ to Cheyenne?” Bart asked.
“We held up a stagecoach ’n kilt the guard. All we got for it was a bag full of mail, but I figure the driver ’n the passengers has prob’ly told ever’one in Cheyenne about it. Told who we was.”
“You mean they knew you?” Bart asked, surprised by Lou’s comment.
“No, but they prob’ly told ever’one what we looked like, ’n we was just in Cheyenne before, so that’s how they could find out.”
Bart chuckled. “Well, never you mind about that. Right now we’re goin’ to a cabin that we’ve got. It’s outside Cheyenne, by maybe eight or nine miles.”
Deekus Carlotti came riding up alongside Lou. “Hey, are we goin’ to stop ’n eat some’ers? Me ’n the others is gettin’ some hungry.”
The question had been directed toward Lou, but Bart answered. “We ain’t that far from the cabin now, ’n we got eats there.”
Carlotti nodded, then dropped back behind the two leaders.
The men reached the cabin within ten more minutes. Bart had been calling it a cabin, but it was bigger and better constructed than Lou had anticipated. He would have called it a house. There was also a stable for the horses.
“Damn, Bart. This is quite a layout you got here,” Lou said.
“Better than sleeping on the dirt,” Bart replied.
“Or under it,” Lou joked.
Bart laughed.
Once inside, Slim Gardner began frying some bacon, then he fried some cornbread in the bacon drippings. That and a couple of cans of beans made up the meal.
There was no table, so the men took their meals seated on the floor.
“So, tell me, Bart, have you got any jobs lined up?” Lou asked.
“I’m talking with someone about a job now, a big job, I mean a really big job, and if it comes through, it will mean more money than any of us have ever seen before.”
“What is the job?” Lou asked.
Bart shook his head. “I’d rather not say. I don’t want to jinx it.”
Lou chuckled. “Well, if it is as big as you say, we sure as hell don’t want it jinxed.”
Cheyenne
“Kirby, did you hear that the stagecoach was held up and the shotgun guard killed?” Chief Peach asked.
“I heard some folks talkin’ about it, yes.”
“I’d like for you to go down to the stagecoach depot and talk to the driver, then locate and interview the passengers who were on board.”
“Chief, why is that any of our concern? It happened outside the city limits, and that means outside our jurisdiction. Seems to me that would be the job of the sheriff, or at least one of his deputies. But I’ll do it if you ask me.”
Chief Peach laughed. “Hell, Dan, I thought I just did.”
Kirby walked down to the depot where he found the driver, Chance Lane, talking to Ken Proffer, the depot manager.
