Wyoming Slaughter (2 page)
Authors: William W. Johnstone
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Well, it sure was a head-scratcher. All those buzzards in the saloons was simply gonna say no to going dry and defy anyone to do anything about it. I got through fifth-grade arithmetic, and knew that one sheriff going against thirty or forty angry men in every saloon wasn't very good odds. And I had seventeen saloons and a mess of other joints to deal with. It sure didn't look like it would be a happy New Year's Eve.
And I didn't have a notion of how to deal with it. I thought maybe I could ride out to the ranches and talk the foremen into keeping their men out of Doubtful that night. But to think it was to dismiss it. There wasn't a ranch owner or boss in Puma County that would do that, and there wasn't one in favor of going dry, either.
Maybe I could deal with it with a little sweetener. Those barkeeps that shut down proper as the new year rolled in, they could keep their spirits and wagon them off somewhere else the next day or two, but them that tried to stay open after the law shut them down at midnight, they'd have every bottle blowed away and every cask and barrel punctured and drained. Only trouble was, I didn't know how I'd break every bottle in Doubtful. Puma County was plain awesome when it came to drinking. It took half the distilleries in the country to keep Puma County properly lubricated and cheerful. It'd take more bullets than I had in my sheriff office to clean out all that booze. But maybe shotguns would do it. Even bird shot would wipe a swath through every backbar in town. A feller could dry up a saloon with a dozen shotgun blasts and a few six-gun shots into the kegs.
It sure was a mournful thought. But that seemed the best deal. Shotguns at the ready, a few solid citizens could dry up Doubtful real quick. But there'd be some men getting hurt, and I didn't much care for that, even if all them barflies deserved a little pain. A few loads of bird shot and Sammy Upward's Last Chance Saloon would be soaked in booze and its sawdust floors would be loaded with busted glass. It sure was a pity, all that waste. My ma used to tell me that booze wasn't for everyone, but just for those who didn't need it. That had me scratching my head a while, but I finally got the hang of it.
Twenty men with shotguns. That'd dry up Doubtful, Wyoming, faster than a trip to a fifty-cent cathouse. But before it was over, there'd be a few bodies, too, and that wasn't very enticing for a man sworn to keep the peace. It didn't matter who was at fault: saloon men vowing to defy the law, or the cabal of supervisors and their prissy wives who thought to force their notions on everyone else.
I scratched my head some more, but nothing else came to mind. I'd lived twenty-four years, but this was the first time I'd dealt with anything like this. There were scores of men in the saloons who were simply gonna say no to the law, and take the consequences. And when it was over, there'd sure be a mess of men who'd be mad at me, maybe fight-to-death mad, and that was something to consider, too. I'd sure like to live another twenty-four years, and then some.
Times sure were changing. The frontier was vanishing and settlers were settling.
I sure couldn't think of anything that might work. So the next step was to get myself a good posse. I thought I'd start with Supervisor Amos W. Grosbeak, get the names of them fellers who supported the Big Dry, as everyone was calling it, and line them up for the New Year's Eve fandango.
I trudged through a wintry afternoon, with the air mean and northerly, and entered the courthouse, which was almost as cold as outside. That's how justice was: cold and mean. A warm courthouse would upset everyone's notion of how the world worked.
Sure enough, there was Grosbeak in his warren, plenty warm from a cast-iron coal stove.
“Yes? What do you want?” Grosbeak asked, plainly annoyed.
“Need to talk about going dry.”
“Well be quick about it. I've got to hang this mistletoe.” He eyed me. “Here I was, full of Christmas and you walked in. I guess I'll put up the mistletoe later.”
“I ain't very kissable,” I said.
That was the wrong thing to say. “You have ten seconds,” Grosbeak said.
“I'm making a posse for New Year's Eve. That's the only way I'm gonna shut down the town and turn out the lights. My last deputy is quitting on me at midnight, and I can't do it alone.”
“Posse? Why a posse?”
“Because no one's got any intention of shutting down, law or no law. They're gonna keep right on a-going, and they've told me if I mess with them, they'll bury me.”
Amos W. Grosbeak frowned. “I really should hang the mistletoe,” he said. “It's time to sing carols and crank up the holidays, and pour some wassail punch.”
“What's that?”
“Why, ah, a little beverage flavored with spices, good health, and good cheer.”
“Sounds like good booze to me,” I said.
It was the wrong thing to say.
“Well, I expect you to do the job,” the supervisor said.
“I need a posse. I need the names of all those fellers who feel real strong about us going dry around here. All them businessmen who wanted it. I'll deputize them for the posse. Thought I'd start with you. I found it in the books. I can make a posseman out of anyone I want, no matter whether they want it. Thought I'd swear you in.”
“Me? I'm a public servant. I'm exempt from everything.”
“You read me where you're exempt, all right?”
“Forget it, Sheriff. You can remove my name from your list. You can recruit plenty of men for the task, but I will be in my snug home, enjoying a quiet and prayerful welcoming of the new year.”
“I'll need about twenty men with shotguns and a lot of bird shot,” I said. “I'll give them barkeeps a little leeway and let them shut down for an hour into the new year. It don't make sense to shut down all them places on the stroke of midnight. Some of them barkeeps, they'll just lock up and start shipping their stock out of town the next day, but some'll want to defy the law and test me, and that's who I'm going after.”
“You're not going to give any saloon any leeway, Sheriff. You're going to enforce the law to the hilt. At the stroke of midnight, Puma County will be freed from its prison of misery and crime.”
Grosbeak was staring, a sprig of mistletoe in hand waiting to be attached to the kerosene lamp chandelier.
“Give me the names of ten good men I can deputize, men who believe the way you do, then. No, make it twenty able-bodied men.”
“I'm not going to rat on anyone, Sheriff. I'm a public servant, and don't forget it.”
This was going nowhere fast.
“All right, I'll just pick twenty of the town's top people and swear them in, and if they won't swear in, they'll get themselves a trip to my iron-barred parlor.”
“Ah, Sheriff, those men won't be suited to the task. You want twenty good, law-abiding, God-fearing, prayerful cowboys for the task.”
“That don't make a bit of sense. There ain't any, Mr. Grosbeak.”
Grosbeak scratched his chin foliage a little and eyed the overcast skies, then examined the mistletoe hanging from his chandelier.
“You're a competent young man,” he said, “and I have every confidence you'll enforce the law to a fare-thee-well.”
“You got me there, sir. I never read nothing about a frothy well.”
“Oh, forget it, Pickens.”
“I keep trying to get myself educated, so I'd sure like to know about these frothy wells.”
“A fare-thee-well is perfection. You are going to enforce county law perfectly.”
“Learn something every day,” I said.
There was no sense hanging around the courthouse palavering with supervisors, so I headed across Courthouse Square to the chambers of Lawyer Stokes, the town's one and only attorney. No one ever called him by his full name, Tim-maeus Pharoah Stokes, but just Lawyer Stokes. I had always sort of liked the feller and had wanted to call him Timmy, but my ma used to warn me about being overly familiar.
Lawyer Stokes had no receptionist and could usually be found reading law books or the King James Version, and that is how I discovered him. I removed my beaver Stetson and bowed and scraped a little.
“What is it, Pickens?”
“I got me the right to swear in a posse, if I want, and even if them folks don't want to be sworn, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I'll be doing it then. I need me a posse New Year's Eve to shut down the saloons. There ain't one barkeep in town is gonna close up and toss the key away. They're telling me they ain't gonna obey the law and tough luck to anyone that tries to stop them.”
“I see. Yes, that would keep the court dockets busy, I imagine. And since I'm the county attorney, I'd be pretty busy.”
“Well, I'm sworn to uphold the law, and I'm gonna do her,” I said. “I'm going to get me a posse, and it'll all be them fellers that pushed this law through, the dry law, so I'll swear them all in and we'll get her done. I guess I'll start with you, Lawyer Stokes. I'm hereby swearing you in and telling you to report at eleven, New Year's Eve, and bring your shotgun and plenty of bird shot that'll clean off backbars real fine.”
Lawyer Stokes stared, aghast.
“I'm the county attorney, Sheriff. You can't swear me in. I'm immune.”
“Show me where it says that; read me the chapter and verse, Lawyer Stokes.”
“Why, there are abundant precedents, young man. There's no need. I'll tell you flatly I'm exempt, won't show up, and not even a court order will budge me.”
“Lawyer Stokes, you lift your right hand and swear that you'll uphold the law and follow the directions of the head of the posse, namely me.”
Stokes removed his spectacles, polished them, and restored them to their resting place just above the vast foliage of his beard. “You're a fine fellow, Sheriff, but a tad young and inexperienced. If you had a little more schooling, and a little more sophistication, you'd see that this is a bad idea. You are a peace officer. Your primary task is to keep the peace, prevent bloodshed, prevent violence.”
“I thought it was to uphold the law without favor.”
“That, too, young man, but the law has a little give in it, and you need to be judicious in the ways you apply it.”
“Well, you're stuck. I'm swearing you into my posse, and you'll be there at my office ahead of midnight.”
“Hell will freeze over first, Pickens.”
That was pretty entertaining. I thought maybe I'd recruit the mayor of Doubtful, George Waller. He'd be a good man to have on the midnight posse. Waller ran a dry goods store and built caskets on the side, so I headed for the woodworking shop. Sure enough, there was the mayor, screwing brass hinges into the lid of a fancy rosewood coffin.
“I don't know why you're here, Pickens, but you're up to no good and the answer is no.”
“Merry Christmas, George,” I replied. “You building that for somebody?”
“Let's hope it's not you,” the mayor replied, screwing down the lid.
“I reckon I got me a mess New Year's Eve.”
“Your mess, not my mess.”
“You in favor of going dry in Puma County?”
“Don't pin me down, Sheriff. I refuse to be pinned down. There's virtues in it, and there's vices in it. The town might lose some business, but the town might gain some peace.”
“That's all I need. I'm swearing you in for my posse. It'll take about twenty good men armed with shotguns and bird shot to close down all them thirst parlors. They're getting a little hot about it and saying they won't close, so we're just going to go ahead and enforce the new law. Now, George, lift that right paw and I'll swear you in, and then you show up armed at my office an hour before the new year starts.”
“Jumping Jehoshaphat,” Waller said. “Ain't you the card.”
“Raise that paw, George. I got the right to put any man I want into a posse.”
“I'm the mayor, and I'm proclaiming that Doubtful will stay wet until dawn, law or no law. That suit you?”
“Raise that paw and swear in, George.”
“I'm not going to show up, so forget it.”
“Guess my two cells are gonna get themselves to overflowing New Year's Eve.”
Waller looked up from his coffin. “Over my dead body,” he said.
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It sure was annoying. All the gents who were making Puma County dry didn't want to help out when it came to enforcing the new law. I tried two or three more, like the banker Hubert Sanders, Doc Harrison, and George Maxwell, who ran the funeral parlor, and they just weaseled out.
“I'm not letting you off the hook,” I said to Sanders. “I got the power to deputize you and put you in the posse, and I'm doing it. You show up at eleven, New Year's Eve.”
“Tut tut, young fellow. I'm sure if you'd study on it, you'd find that your task is to keep the peace and that law enforcement requires a degree of moderation. If you cause trouble, there'll be widows made, and grief, and sorrow in Doubtful.”
“I'm not the one causing trouble! Them saloon men told me they won't obey the law, and they'll fight.”
Sanders peered steadily through his wire-framed half-glasses. “Moderation, my boy. That's how to win the day. One little step at a time. You'll do fine if you just close one saloon at a time. Just put one out of business once in a while, and next you know, Puma County will be dry and clean and upright. So what if it takes a few months? Use a little patience, boy, and maybe shut down one a week, and everyone'll be happy.”
“The ones I shut down won't.”
“Well, they'll have time to move their bottles across the county line, if you let 'em alone a bit.”
“They've had time to do that now, and I don't see any packing up and loading a wagon.”
“Of course not. I have loans outstanding to several of the saloons. Mostly mortgages. We need to do all this moderately so these barkeeps have time to pay off their debts. I'd hate to foreclose on all those empty buildings.”
I stared. “Guess I shoulda seen how it lies around here.”
I didn't line up anyone for my midnight posse. And my threat to jail them if they failed to show up didn't faze them a bit. I was on my own.
I headed into the jailhouse with my temper up and saw my deputy, Rusty Irons, fixing to practice on his new bugle. He'd been learning Forward, Gallop, and Commence Firing.
“You're quitting me, too, you yellow-bellied punk. I should fire you now instead of letting you draw pay and then walk out the moment I need you.”
“That's fine,” said Rusty.
“What do you mean, fine?”
“I don't want to live in a dry county. I'm just staying on to do you a favor. I'm heading for Sweetwater on January one, and when I get there, first thing I'll do is have me a glass of redeye.”
I didn't have much of an argument against that. Fact is, I thought maybe I'd quit Doubtful myself. Being a lawman in a dry county was about as interesting as watching an anthill. But I wasn't ready to forgive.
“You could stay long enough to help me shut down the saloons, but you weaseled out on me.”
Rusty grinned. “Why get shot at for this? There's some laws that ain't worth spit.”
“You swore an oath to uphold all the laws! So did I.”
“That's why we're all quitting.”
I couldn't stay mad at red-haired Rusty for long. The man had been a good deputy, brave and ready to pitch in whenever there was trouble. And now he was quitting, not because of cowardice, but because he didn't want to enforce a law that he opposed.
I didn't like the law, either. I thought it was full of good intentions, but it would cause more harm than good. All them Temperance people, they wanted a peaceful town, quiet and sleepy and safe, and they wanted families kept secure, and people not to be impaired, and maybe the merchants wanted cowboys to spend their payroll in the stores and restaurants rather than in the saloons.
And there were all the churchy ones who thought Doubtful was the sinfullest place in the West, and they were determined to rid the community of everything that catered to appetites. There were some that couldn't stand it when someone else was having a good time, relaxing with friends. Prigs, that's what they were. Just couldn't stand the thought of anyone enjoying himself. I knew a few of those around town. But mostly, prohibition was based on good intentions, and a lot of folks supported it because they saw a better world if there were no spirits available. But that wasn't the way life worked, and most of them would be sorry some day, when Doubtful turned to dust and everyone moved away. Them Temperance folks, they just couldn't live in an imperfect world.
Well, it was coming to a head now. In a few days no one living in Puma County could sell or possess spiritous drinks, and there weren't no loopholes in that county ordinance, neither. And the fines were stiff, too. The county supervisors meant business, and if someone tried to get along just by paying a few little fines now and then, they were in for a surprise.
“Where do you reckon they'll all go?” Rusty asked. “Those cowboys get a big thirst, and they're sure going to take that thirst somewhere, and it ain't gonna be Doubtful, and they ain't gonna buy sarsaparilla at the ice cream parlor.
“There's no town anywhere within forty miles, but maybe one or another'll spring up on the county line. I've seen places like that. Bunch of shanties, green lumber, tarpaper shacks, doing business right on the county line.”
“That and bootleggers,” I said. “If I stick around here, I'll probably be chasing bootleggers halfway to Laramie and back.”
“You could just wait and see,” Rusty said. “Just leave the new law alone, and in a week or so the supervisors, they'll repeal it and Puma stays wet.”
“Got to keep my oath of office.”
Rusty sighed. “You're a hard man to work for.”
I eyed the empty jail cells, studied the log, concluded it had been a quiet December afternoon and I wasn't needed there.
“I'm going to Saloon Row,” I said.
“I'll send a coffin,” Rusty said.
I bundled up. I could deal with winter cold, as long as the wind wasn't howling. When it blew, nothing I wore kept the cold at bay. It didn't matter what I bought; it was no good in arctic wind.
Saloon Row was clear over on the other side of town, and was the first thing that cowboys saw when they were riding in from all the ranches over there. It prospered, kept in business by a couple hundred cowboys, as well as Doubtful people. Some of the joints were rough, and some were pussycat quiet. Most of the joints were quiet most nights, unless some wild man got liquored up and started a brawl, and then I filled my jailhouse.
I headed for the quietest, darkest, and most dangerous joint on the row, the Lizard Lounge. It was usually lit by a single kerosene lamp and was patronized by males who didn't like to talk. It was also patronized by people with no visible means of employment, mysterious males who drifted in and out of Doubtful, doing things beyond fathoming. It was owned by someone called George Roman, only in Doubtful he was called George the Roman, and was even more quiet than his saloon.
I went in. The door swung silently, admitting me to a scanty heat and thick gloom. Roman, sallow and bag-eyed, studied me.
“You closing up at midnight, New Year?”
“I don't announce my plans, Sheriff.”
“Then you aren't. If you intended to shut down, you'd say so.”
“You're very intelligent, aren't you, Sheriff?”
“My ma, she thought I was carrying a lot of wood in my head.”
“You're a lot smarter than I am, Sheriff.”
“I want to know what your plans are. I have two missions. One is to keep the peace. The other is to put the law into effect.”
Roman smiled at last. “Contradictions,” he said.
“You could stay open. Peddle other stuff.”
“I've thought about it.”
“The rest of the saloons, they're staying open after midnight?”
“How should I know?”
“I think you know.”
“I hear you're recruiting a posse. All the bright lights. Empty out the churches and give them all a badge.”
“Where'd you hear that?”
Roman sighed. “Sheriff, you could recruit the whole town. Every able-bodied man. Give them all shotguns. And you wouldn't be able to shut down the saloons. So forget it. Go to bed at midnight. You want a fight? You'll get a fight, a bad, drunken, whooping fight, with lots of lead flying.”
That was the longest speech I had ever heard issuing from Roman.
“Thanks, Roman,” I said.
“You have no smarts, Pickens; get some somewhere.”
“That's what my ma always told me, but she always said I could make up for it by practicing the virtues.”
Roman smiled. He was missing two lower incisors.
I let myself out. I blinked at the light. The Lizard was so dark that even an overcast December sky seemed blinding. I wondered what sort of men preferred to drink in the middle of a cave. Saloon Row wasn't at its peak yet, but it was always busy, twenty-four hours a day. I headed for McGivers Saloon, across the street, the only one owned by a woman. Maybe she'd close it down.
A gust of wind burrowed into my coat, hurrying me across frozen muck and dried dung in the road. McGivers was a bright place, but grossly overheated by a big coal stove. It would take little time before I had to undo my coat to keep from sweating in there. Sure enough, I walked into a blast of hot dry air with a little acrid coal smoke mixed in for atmosphere. Mrs. McGivers wasn't tending bar, but was sitting at a faro table at the rear, the chandelier spilling yellow lamplight over her bun of chestnut hair.
“I'm glad you came by, Sheriff. We're staying open.”
“Against the law?”
“The law is an ass. Just stay out of here New Year's Eve. I can't guarantee that you'll feel comfortable in here if you wander in. And that goes double for the possemen.”
“Word sure gets around.”
“Don't try it. Don't come in. And if you do, wear armor.”
“Does it matter to you that the ordinance was passed proper, and it's valid law?”
“Certainly it matters. It makes me want to hang the supervisors by their nuts, and gut their wives.”
“You could pack up. Puma County isn't that big. Set up shop in Sweetwater.”
“I like it here. I even like you.” She eyed me, shuffled a deck without eyeing it, and smiled. “Like you a lot, Cotton. You just mind your manners. You're not going to take my livelihood from me. This is my living. I don't want to shoot your nuts off.”
“There's some that say I don't have any.”
She grinned. “Want me to find out?”
It sure was getting interesting. “Guess I'll have to shut you down. I'll start with you. One minute after midnight.”
“Sure you will. You'll walk in here with twenty storekeepers and accountants, all of the scared shitless, and if I don't meekly nod my head and kiss your hand, they'll blow away my backbar with bird shot, and I'll be out a few clams.” She laughed.
“Word does get around, ma'am.”
“It sure does. New Year's Eve may just be the most fun we ever had in Doubtful, Puma County, Wyoming. I can hardly wait. Twenty merchants with wet pants, most of them half deaf from the shotgun blasts. I'm delighted I'll be first. We'll settle the whole issue right here. They'll all cut and run, and there'll only be you and me. I live upstairs. You come up and I'll show you my lithographs.”
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