Chapter 9 #2
He turned over what was left of the porch beam and found a burned bandana pressed into the soot. The edge was blackened, the center still red where the fire hadn’t reached. It was the kind of bandana cowboys wore, not Mexican or Chinamen. He brought it to Whiskey’s nose.
“Find him,” Johnny said.
The big yellow dog sniffed once, twice, and then moved — head down, tail low, purpose in every stride. Johnny followed through the alleys, past the stable, up Fremont, across Allen. Whiskey didn’t falter. The trail ended on the porch of the Long Barrel Saloon.
Johnny stepped inside.
Clint Donovan looked up from the bar. “You bring that dog in here for a drink or to scare my customers?”
Johnny dropped the scorched bandana on the counter. “Maybe both. You recognize it?”
Donovan barely glanced at it. “Could be any man’s rag.”
“Maybe,” Johnny said, “but this one smells of kerosene and murder.”
Donovan’s smile stiffened. “You accusing me, Irons?”
“I’m asking a question.”
“Then I’ll give you an answer. You watch your mouth, or the undertaker’s hired hands will be digging another grave.
Johnny leaned in close. “I have a shovel, too. But I’ve been known to let the coyotes and crows eat instead.”
For a moment, the air between them turned cold. Then Whiskey let out a low growl that made every eye in the saloon turn their way.
Johnny picked up the bandana, tucked it inside his vest, and walked out.
Donovan’s voice followed him.
“You keep poking around, boy,” he said, “and someday you’ll find something that pokes back.”
Johnny didn’t look back. “I hope it’s got teeth bigger than Whiskey’s.”
Two mornings later, seven riders came down from the north like a dust-laden wind carrying bad news.
The McLaury clan.
They tied off in front of the Long Barrel and filled the porch with noise. Two still carried reminders from their last visit — one limped, and the other’s right hand was tightly wrapped.
Marshal White watched from his office door. “Looks like a full set of trouble.”
Johnny nodded. “Looks like men who don’t forget easy.”
“They’ll be looking for a reason,” White said. “Don’t give ‘em one. Stay clear of the Long Barrel tonight.”
“I’ll stay clear,” Johnny said. “But I’ll keep watch.”
White gave him a look that said he’d heard that tone before. “Just don’t end up needing a pine box.”
Johnny smiled faintly. “I’ll leave that for them.”
He took the alley across the street, where he could see both the Long Barrel and the Crystal Palace. The shadows settled around him, with Whiskey lying at his feet. The dog’s ears twitched at every voice that drifted from the open saloon doors.
The sun dropped behind the ridge, and Tombstone turned to gold, then gray.
At dark, Autumn’s voice rose through the night, soft as running water. Inside the Crystal Palace, every sound bent around her song — the rustle of cards, the clink of glasses, the heavy breathing of men who’d forgotten their troubles for a verse or two.
Johnny leaned against the post and listened. The dog’s tail thumped once. “She’s got more courage than most men here, singing in a place like the Crystal Palace,” he murmured.
Whiskey huffed as if to agree.
Then the peace broke like glass.
The Long Barrel's batwings opened. Seven McLaurys poured out, all laughter and liquor. They clattered down Allen Street, their voices loud, their boots striking sparks from the boards as they headed toward the Crystal Palace.
Johnny didn’t think they were heading to the Palace for more whiskey, but to make someone bleed.
Johnny followed them, hand near his Colt, eyes hard, Whiskey by his side. He kept close to the wall as they walked across the room.
Inside, the crowd went still.
Autumn was finishing her song.
Luke McLaury — the one with the limp — stood up, a wide grin on his face.
“Well now,” he said, swaggering toward the stage. “Sing us another, darling. Something sweet to make me forget the pain in my leg.”
Donovan stepped out from behind the bar, face red, jaw clenched. “Sit down, Luke. Have a bottle of Old Overholt on me.”
Luke turned, smirking. “You playing barkeep, Donovan?”
“I’m tellin’ you to quit actin’ like you were raised in a barn,” Donovan said evenly. “Sit down and enjoy some Old Overholt.”
Luke laughed, high and mean. “Maybe I’ll dance with your daughter instead. Except I ain’t much for dancing anymore.”
“Then I reckon I have to ask you and your cousins to head for the door,” Donovan said, motioning toward the door.
Without warning, Luke drew his pistol. The gunshot cracked through the room. Donovan jerked back, eyes wide, hitting the bar, then the floor.
The smell of powder rolled through the air.
Johnny was already moving.
He closed the distance in three strides, shoved through the tables, and came up beside Luke before the smoke cleared.
The Pocket Colt pressed hard against Luke’s temple.
“Drop it,” Johnny said, voice low.
Luke froze. “He drew first.”
Johnny shook his head. “That’s not what I saw. You drew and fired for no reason. Now drop the pistol, or I’ll put a hole in your head and see if there are any brains inside.”
The gun hit the floor with a thud.
“Luke, you’re under arrest for murder,” Johnny said.
“Not so fast, boy. We say differently,” one of the McLaurys Johnny didn’t know said. “There are six of us.”
“Yelp, there will be only six because I’ll blow a hole in Luke’s head if’n y’all don’t take a seat at the table,” Johnny said, pressing the barrel of his Pocket Colt harder against Luke’s temple.
“You boys do as he says. Uncle Jed will straighten things out in the morning,” Luke said. “I’ve had enough whiskey anyway. A good night’s sleep in a jail bunk will do me good.”
Whiskey growled low in his chest, lips curling back over white teeth.
“Luke is breathing because I let him. Don’t cause me to change my mind,” Johnny said.
Benton McLaury took a step forward. “We’ll see you in a box, Irons.”
Johnny’s eyes cut to him. “You try it, I’ll save you the trouble of finding a lid.”
He shoved Luke toward the doors, the Colt steady against Luke’s temple. “We’re going to the marshal’s office, or he’s going to the undertaker.”
The batwings slapped as they stepped into the street.
White was already there, shotgun in hand. “Heard the shot,” he said. “What’s the count?”
“One fool, one body, Donovan,” Johnny said.
White swore, his jaw set. “Let’s get him in the cell.” He glanced into the saloon. “Benson, if you and your cousin follow us and start trouble, my double-barreled shotgun will send a couple to a pine box no one will want to open the lid of.”
Johnny marched to the marshal’s office. Marshal White hung back, covering Benson and his cousins as they followed in the street. Reaching the marshal’s office, Johnny pushed Luke through the door, held it open for Whiskey, then for Marshal White.
“You’d best let me go, Marshal. Uncle Jed will burn your jailhouse down,” Luke threatened.
“Not with you inside,” Marshal White said. He nodded at Johnny. “Lock him up.”
Johnny shoved Luke toward the rear of the office. Whiskey followed Luke as he limped toward the back, growling to keep his boots moving.
When the iron lock clicked behind him, Luke grinned through the bars. “You’ll be sorry for this,” he called to Marshal White.
White shrugged. “I’ve been sorry for worse things.”
Johnny stared through the bars. “You come out of that cell before morning, McLaury, you’ll go out in a pine box.”
Luke’s grin faded.
When they stepped outside again, Tombstone was alive with whispers.
Men stood in clusters, watching the jail. Down the street, the Crystal Palace glowed dimly in the lamplight.
“Come on, Whiskey, let’s see to Autumn,” Johnny said, heading toward the Crystal Palace.
Inside, Autumn sat beside her father’s body, his chest covered by a white sheet.
Johnny crossed to her.
“You should rest,” he said quietly.
She looked up, eyes bright but dry. “He tried to protect me. Maybe that’s worth something.”
“It is,” Johnny said. “It’s worth a song.”
She nodded, her voice trembling. “Then I’ll sing one for him tomorrow as he’s laid to rest.”
White came up behind him. “You’d best head home, Miss Donovan. There’ll be more McLaurys in town by sunup.”
“I know,” she said, glancing toward Johnny. “But he won’t face them alone, will he?”
Marshal White shook his head. “Not as long as I’m breathing.”
She touched Johnny’s arm briefly. “Then God keep you both.”
White watched her go. “She’s got courage. Fool’s kind, but courage.”
“Better fool’s courage than a coward’s silence,” Johnny said.
The marshal gave him a sideways look. “You sound like a man bound for trouble.”
“I usually am.”
They walked along Allen Street in silence for a while, boots whispering in the dust. Whiskey padded between them, eyes scanning the shadows.
“You could’ve shot that boy,” White said finally. “You didn’t.”
“Didn’t need to,” Johnny said. “He’ll hang soon enough.”
“Yeah, but he’s going to bring a heap of trouble before that noose stretches his neck,” Marshal White said.
Johnny looked up toward the ridge, where Buckner’s big house sat dark against the sky.
White followed his gaze. “You think Buckner had a hand in this?”
“I think he’s got a hand in everything dirty this side of the San Pedro,” Johnny said. “Donovan was his man. Maybe he got tired of following orders he didn’t agree with. Now Donovan’s dead. He’ll want a new one.”
White sighed. “You ever get tired of carrying the weight of justice?”
Johnny smiled faintly. “No, Marshal. I just wish the world would stop adding to it.”
Whiskey whined softly, tail brushing the dirt.
“Come on, boy,” Johnny said. “Let’s walk this town till it forgets what it saw.”