Chapter 9
Two weeks had passed since the shootout at the highwayman’s camp.
In that time, Tombstone had found its old rhythm again — poker games that lasted till dawn, whiskey that burned clean, and men who settled debts with fists or bullets, depending on how late the hour was.
To the rest of the town, it was business as usual.
To Johnny Irons, it was waiting for something to happen.
His shoulder had mended enough for him to throw away the sling. The ache was still there, dull as a buried thorn, but he worked it daily. A man healed faster when he kept his hands busy. Marshal White said the town was quiet. Johnny said it was just catching its breath.
That morning, the marshal stood in his office doorway, coffee steaming in his hand.
“You’re moving easier,” he said.
Johnny flexed his left arm once. “Feels stronger.”
White grunted. “You’ll tear it open again if you don’t slow down.”
Johnny smiled faintly. “Town don’t slow down, Marshal.”
White looked out toward Allen Street, where wagons rattled past the storefronts and a pair of miners argued over a shovel. “You ever think this town’s like a pot of beans left on the fire? Sooner or later, it’s gonna boil over.”
“Then we better have plates ready,” Johnny said.
White chuckled under his breath. “You talk like a man too young to be tired and too old to be lucky.”
That evening, Autumn Donovan waited for him behind the Crystal Palace, wrapped in a shawl against the night breeze. The lamplight caught in her hair as she looked around to make sure no one was following.
“My father met with Buckner’s men again,” she whispered. “They’re collecting Saturday night. Allen Street. Han Lee first, then Jack, the tailor.”
Johnny studied her face. “You sure about that?”
“I was behind the door,” she said. “He thinks I don’t listen.”
Johnny looked down the alley, then back at her. “You shouldn’t risk it, Autumn. Not for me. Not for this.”
Her eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t do it for you. I do it for what’s right.”
Johnny nodded slowly. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
She smiled just a little, and it made her look younger than her worries.
“Be careful,” she said. “My father’s temper isn’t entirely his own anymore. Buckner winds it tight.”
“I’ll watch for both,” Johnny said. “You just keep singing.”
“I want to sing in a place that deserves to hear me. I’m thinking Chicago. A gambler passing through a few months ago gave me a card from McVicker’s Playhouse. Said I could get a well-paying job singing there. It would make me a famous singer.”
“Yeah, I reckon singing in Tombstone for drunk miners and cowboys ain’t going to make any headlines,” Johnny said, a hint of disappointment in his voice.
“I’ve got to get back inside. I’m due to start my next set of songs,” Autumn said as she reached down to pat Whiskey on the head. As she turned toward the door, her hand brushed Johnny’s sleeve before she disappeared inside.
“Come on, Whiskey, let’s go jaw with the marshal,” Johnny said.
Marshal White glanced up from reading the newspaper. “What?”
“Just spoke to Autumn. Buckner is sending men to collect money from Han Lee, and then Jack the tailor, Saturday night,” Johnny said, settling into the straight chair in front of the desk.
“You sure you want to take on Buckner’s enforcers? If he doesn’t shake down the businesses on Allen Street, someone else will,” Marshal White said. “You can’t plug a hole in a milk pail with your finger.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I’ve got a thing for interrupting Buckner’s shady protection racket that makes hard-working men fatten his coffers. He’s richer than God. How much more money does he need?” Johnny said.
Marshal White shook his head. “Money just makes men greedy for more.”
The moon rose over the Dragoons like a pale coin someone had flipped into the dark. The streets of Tombstone were quiet, except for the creak of a sign chain and the low murmur from a poker table behind the Crystal Palace’s shutters.
Johnny Irons leaned in the shadows beside Jack the tailor’s shop, the small wooden sign above the door swaying faintly in the wind.
He could smell starch, thread oil, and the dust that never quite left Tombstone’s air.
Beside him, Whiskey crouched low, his yellow hide blending with the lamplight spilling from the shop window.
Johnny glanced down. “Think they’ll come, Whiskey?”
Hearing his name, Whiskey’s tail thumped once against the ground.
“Yeah,” Johnny murmured, voice quiet as sand through dry fingers. “I think they will. Greed don’t sleep.”
From up the street came the jingle of spurs and the low whine of worn harness.
Two riders reined in at the hitching post, shadows stretching long beneath the streetlamps.
Both men wore dust-gray hats pulled low, their faces hidden by the brims. Saddlebags clinked as they swung down — the sound of money collected, and protection bought.
Johnny watched them for a moment. The taller man moved with the easy arrogance of someone who’d handled other men’s fear before. The shorter one kept darting looks over his shoulder — the kind of twitchy eyes that always saw ghosts when none were there.
They went straight for the tailor’s door.
Inside, Jack worked late, measuring cloth under lamplight, his tape dangling around his neck. He looked up when the bell above the door jingled.
“Store’s closed,” he said, voice small and wary.
The tall one smiled thinly. “Then you’re in luck. We ain’t here to buy; we’re here to collect.”
He pushed inside, crowding the little man backward while his partner stayed near the door. The saddlebag hit the counter with a heavy thud.
“Five dollars,” the tall one said. “Mr. Buckner’s protection fee went up. The streets are getting more dangerous.”
Johnny heard the slap through the thin wall. His eyes went flat. He stepped out of the shadows and across the street, silent as dusk falling. Whiskey followed, shoulders low, eyes alive.
Inside, the two men didn’t hear the door open. Johnny moved fast and quiet, the Pocket revolver in his hand.
“That’s enough,” he said.
The tall one froze. The shorter one turned, his hand dropping toward his holster.
Johnny’s Colt barked once. Splinters jumped by the man’s boot, close enough to singe his pride. “Next shot’s yours,” Johnny said evenly. “Right through the middle.”
The short one stopped breathing for a second, then raised his hands.
The tall man’s jaw tightened. “Who the hell are you?”
“Name’s Irons,” Johnny said, brushing his badge with his left hand. “Law enough for tonight.”
The tall one looked at the gun — small, polished, steady. He smiled thinly. “You won’t shoot. You’re too young to die.”
Johnny’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re too old to be stupid. Drop the iron.”
Whiskey stepped forward, his growl rolling up from the floorboards like thunder underfoot.
“His bite is worse than his growl,” Johnny said, waving his Pocket Colt.
The man hesitated—then his gun hit the counter.
“Both of you step outside,” Johnny ordered. “Slow. Go rabbit, and I shoot one, and let Whiskey have the other.
They backed out into the street. The short one stumbled over the doorframe, and Whiskey snapped at his boot heel to hurry him along.
Across the street, a few faces peeked from the saloon windows. No one offered help. No one ever did.
Marshal White came striding up from the corner, coat open, badge glinting in the lamplight. “What’s this?” he asked, shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm.
Johnny nodded toward the two men. “Buckner’s collectors. They came for Jack’s wages for the week.”
The marshal nodded. “You two like jail food?”
Neither answered. The short one looked like he might faint.
White tilted the shotgun a little. “Let’s go, boys. The town keeps a quiet cell for men who don’t know what belongs to them.”
The tall man started to protest. “You got no proof?—”
“I got your saddlebag,” Johnny cut in. He picked it up and tossed it to White. Inside, a handful of coins gleamed, mingling with silver pieces and a ledger filled with names — every merchant on Allen Street who paid Buckner for protection.
White held the ledger up to the lamplight and flipped the cover open, read two lines, and whistled. “Looks like Tombstone has been underpaying us to protect them, Johnny. At the next city council meeting, I’m going to ask for a raise.
He shoved the bag under his arm. “Come on, Irons, Whiskey. Let’s walk these gentlemen home to their new beds.”
By dawn, the two collectors sat behind iron bars, their boots off, their hats on the floor, and their tongues running loose. They talked freely — right up until Buckner’s lawyer arrived, wearing a black coat and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. After that, the cells fell quiet as a church pew.
White slammed his hat down on the desk hard enough to stir the dust as the lawyer walked out of the office with the two they had arrested. “You can’t nail smoke, Irons.”
Johnny stood by the window, watching the light spill through the bars. “Then I’ll find the man carrying the fire.”
White rubbed his chin. “You do that, and you’ll end up burned.”
Johnny’s gaze didn’t leave the street. “Maybe, but the next man who tries to shake down a tailor in this town will think twice.”
Whiskey wagged his tail once, slow and satisfied.
White looked down at the dog and shook his head. “That one’s got more sense than most men I’ve known.”
Johnny gave a faint grin. “That’s why I listen to him.”
Three nights later, the fire found him first.
The South of the Border Saloon went up after closing. It was a narrow-front shack, half tin, half timber, owned by a stubborn Mexican named Rivas who’d refused Buckner three times.
By sunrise, there was nothing left but ash and iron nails.
Nobody cared much.
“Just a Mexican joint,” someone said. “Place for Mexicans and Chinamen.”
Johnny rode down with Whiskey, dismounted, and squatted among the ashes. The ground was warm, the smell sharp as old kerosene.