Chapter 11 #3
A smell came at him then—the old leavings of sweat, trail dust, and tobacco rolled into one. A prospector with a beard like broom straw drifted into the near space and hooked a boot on the rail.
“You askin’ after a scarred fella?” he rasped. “Might be able to help.”
“Maybe you could,” Johnny said.
“Bottle of Old Overholt says I could.” He wagged his brows.
Johnny lifted two fingers. “Whiskey. Bottle of Old Overholt.”
The barkeep brought it, watching them both like a man counting cards he couldn’t see. The prospector uncorked the bottle with his teeth, took a long pull, and sighed. “Man you want paid this one to say he hadn’t seen him. I seen them speak, seen coin change hands.”
The Mexican rolled his eyes, but a cold glance from Johnny sent him down the bar to pour for a prospector.
“Where?” Johnny asked.
“Mrs. Bloom’s boarding house. Rented a room, I reckon. Juan, the bardog, suggested.”
Johnny left a silver dollar under the empty sarsaparilla bottle and turned for the door. The barkeep called after him, trying to stick to his lie with a bit more glue. “He ain’t been here!”
Johnny didn’t answer. He stepped into the street and into the damp evening.
A short ride down the street, he found the two-story clapboard house with lace curtains and a porch lamp that cast more smoke than light. He tied Meg and told Whiskey to sit on the steps.
He knocked.
A narrow woman in a shawl opened her mouth, already set for a refusal. “We’re full.”
“I’m looking for a man,” Johnny said. “Badly burned face.”
“I can’t?—”
He eased his coat back with two fingers and let the badge wink. “U.S. deputy marshal,” he lied. “Lying to me is a walk you don’t want to take.”
She hesitated. The lie broke at the edges. “Upstairs,” she whispered. “Room two.”
“You step onto the porch,” Johnny said. “And stand there till I come down. The dog’ll keep you honest.”
Her eyes flicked to Whiskey, and she went pale. “Does he?—”
“If you stand still, he won’t.”
She went to the porch and stood like a fence post.
Johnny went in. The stairs creaked. The hallway smelled of soap and powder, the cheap kind that wears out before daylight. He tried the knob at number two. Locked.
He set his shoulder in and kicked. The panel burst. The door swung wide.
Buckner lay in the bed, shirt open. The satchel sat on a chair. The pistol hung from the bedpost.
His hand went for it.
Johnny’s Pocket Colt fired once. The sound was small after last night’s thunder. Buckner slammed back into the pillow and didn’t move again.
Johnny stood for a second, looking at what was left of the name that had instilled fear in too many men. The scars didn’t matter now. Neither did the money, at least not to Buckner. Johnny lifted the satchel.
Boots clattered on the stairs below. A man came to the doorway, with a drooping mustache and a star on his vest.
“What in thunder—” he began.
“Johnny Irons,” Johnny said, pulling back his coat to reveal his badge. “Deputy. The man’s wanted out of Tombstone. He drew on me.”
The sheriff took in the room, the bed, the gun on the post, the dead man’s face. He nodded once. “Heard of you. Boy sheriff from Gila Bend.”
“Not much of a boy now,” Johnny said.
“No,” the sheriff agreed, looking into eyes too old for the face. “You taking him back?”
“No, the law can’t get any more out of him,” Johnny said. “I’ll pay for a coffin and men to dig. He’ll rest in peace here, at least, what parts ain’t burning in Hell.”
The sheriff scratched his jaw. “Suits me. That black in the livery his?”
“It’s mine now,” Johnny said
“Can’t blame you. He’s a fine piece of horse flesh.”
Johnny met his eye. “He deserves a straighter trail than the last one gave him.”
The sheriff’s mouth turned up. “Can’t argue the sense in that.”
Johnny stepped aside so the man could do what lawmen do after gunsmoke. He went down the stairs and onto the porch. The land smelled of rain and coal smoke. Whiskey stood, came to his knee, and looked up with eyes that never asked for much.
Johnny glanced at the motionless woman. He touched the brim of his hat. “You can go back inside now.”
She scampered inside like a hen running for the chicken coop.
Johnny glanced at Whiskey. “Work’s done,” he told him. “Let’s go home.” He mounted Meg and put the satchel’s handles over the saddle horn.
He reined the spotted mule to the livery. The livery owner blinked at the badge and didn’t ask questions. Johnny saddled the thoroughbred slowly, speaking to him in a voice mules trust and horses learn. He led the black out, threw Meg’s reins over the horn, and swung up on the mule.
He took the black’s lead rope and headed north. Bisbee’s lamps dwindled. The road lay wet and shining beneath a torn moon. Ahead lay a burned house and a dead name; behind them lay a ghost finally run to ground.
Johnny rode easy, shoulders square, eyes steady. Whiskey trotted at the stirrup, watching the road. The badge rode quiet but heavy under Johnny’s coat. He knew it wouldn’t stay there long when he returned to Tombstone. He’d done the job he’d come to Tombstone to do: time to move on.