Crossfire Page 3

  “Businessman!”

  “Your friends said—”

  “Forget them,” Stroud interrupted as he put his hand on her leg. “Spin me a yarn. I ain’t never knowed but one other lady outlaw, and she don’t look like you.”

  “Wasn’t much to it,” Vivian went on, her rundown body buoyed by his calling her an outlaw. She guessed she could move in all the sooner. “Peter and me—really, he made me do it—worked a game on preachers.” She poured another drink, her glow coming on just right. “We’d come to a town like man and wife, Peter and me. Then we’d get with the church and join in on everything. Picnics. Bible class. Fund raisin’. Peter knew the Bible front-to-back. Well . . . after we was in good, I’d kinda cozy up to the preacher. And wham! Just like that! The old black-coat would be tryin’ to get into my petticoats quicker than the blink of an owl’s eye.”

  Stroud, who’d been listening with raised eyebrows, roared. And Vivian joined in.

  “Worked every time,” she added. “Preachers are the biggest bunch of stiff-dicks I’ve ever known.”

  Stroud clutched his side and bellowed more boozy laughter.

  “So I’d say no at first,” she said after another sip of the rye. “Then me and Peter would plan a time and I’d let the old goat strip me naked, and just when he was about to taste the forbidden fruit, Peter’d come on the scene and threaten to expose God’s very own servant unless he could get us a grubstake so’s we could move on and leave the town in peace.” She paused. “Baptists worked best.”

  “Baptists!” Stroud shrieked and slapped the table. “So how’d you get caught?”

  “The last one was the first Lutheran we tried. And when Peter arrived on the scene all indignant, the son-of-a-bitch preacher pulled a thirty-two and shot Peter in the ass as he tried to run. Buck naked, I grabbed the gun away, but he came after me and it went off. Shot him in the side. I grabbed my dress, ran from the preacher’s house, took his horse, and here I am. Saw in the papers that they both recovered. But the preacher was exiled and poor Peter went to jail,” she finished, trying to look sad over Peter’s demise. “That was almost a month ago.”

  “Well, ain’t that somethin’!”

  “Hope you don’t think none the worse of me.”

  “Hell no, Lizzie. Might say I ride the wrong side of the law myself.”

  “Noooo.”

  “Yeah, you might say I’m in the stagecoach business.”

  “Really,” Vivian said in a loud whisper. She clutched his leg. “That’s exciting,” she continued, her eyes fixed in a way that had Stroud drooling.

  “Hey, Lizzie!” Chunk Frazer shouted from the other side of the saloon, breaking the spell she’d cast on the outlaw. “I ain’t payin’ you to be Stroud’s personal barmaid. Get your ass up on your horse and ride. Drinks’re backin’ up.”

  “Oh, shit,” Vivian said, grabbing his arm fondly. “I’ve gotta hustle. Let’s have a drink tomorrow night after I’m off.”

  “Lizzie, you couldn’t keep me away!”

  THREE

  The sun had been down for an hour and only a faint light prevailed in the western sky when Tallman rode into Red Rock astride a dappled gray. He was dusty and dirty and looked and smelled the part of a tough nut. As he loped past the business district toward the west end of the ramshackle town, he scratched at the two-day growth on his crusty face and wondered how Vivian was taking to the rat’s nest they called Red Rock.

  At once noticing the humdrum in the Silver Dollar, he halted his mount in front of the saloon, swung his leg over the gray, and planted his boots into the hardpan street. He adjusted his Model ’72 Army Colt, felt for the .41 derringer he had in a small holster in the small of his back, and strolled into the bar, slapping his hat on his leg as he walked.

  “Howdy, cowboy,” a red-vested Chunk Frazer said from behind the bar. “What’ll it be.”

  “Cold draught,” he said, turning his back on the thick-necked barkeep.

  The joint was in full swing even though it was early by more civilized standards. He noted several card games, hard cases swapping windy tales at the bar, and several solitary drunks well on their way to oblivion. The din of the crowd and the throbbing dissonance of the out-of-tune piano filled the wood-frame building. Then he heard her bawdy laugh.

  Frazer clunked the mug on the crude bar. Tallman turned, fished a nickle out of his pocket, and slid it across the rough timber.

  “ ’Round here, mister,” Frazer said, “beer’s a dime.”

  Tallman eyed the barkeep, allowing a note of dissatisfaction. Then he shrugged and produced another coin. He hauled up the beer and swallowed half of it in the first gulp. Though the beer was warm and flat, it washed away the trail dust. He turned away from the bar again and took another draw on the mug. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vivian acknowledge his presence with a raised eyebrow and widened eyes.

  “Doc,” Vivian said in a loud and playful voice, “tell us again about how you held off them redskins for two days without water or food.”

  Tallman nodded to let her know he got the message. Then he watched the man next to Vivian launch into a windy account of the gun battle.

  His mind began to churn as he pondered the best way to approach Stroud. Then it came to him when he took another sip of warm beer.

  “Barkeep!” he shouted.

  Frazer, who was in the process of serving another customer, spun on his heels. He was taken aback because people usually didn’t yell at him.

  “I ordered a cold beer,” Tallman shouted again. “Bad enough you sellin’ ten-cent beer. But this here shit ain’t worth a goddamned nickle. Warm as fresh cow piss.”

  The room got quieter as Chunk Frazer walked along the bar toward Tallman, his menacing eyes glowing like hot coals.

  Tallman saw that he’d figured the barkeep right. He’d enjoy a good skullbuster.

  “Well, then, mister. You can take your business elsewhere,” Frazer spat through gritted teeth. “Or—”

  “Or, what?” Tallman interrupted, his jaw jutting defiantly.

  “Or I’ll swamp the floor with your carcass.”

  Tallman smiled at the thick-necked Frazer. He knew a down-and-dirty slugfest was the very thing to attract Doc Stroud’s attention. While still smiling, he splashed the last third of his beer right in Frazer’s face.

  For a moment, surprise flickered in Frazer’s eyes. Then he laughed out loud, planted his ham-sized hands on the rough-sawn bar top and vaulted. Tallman was waiting. He set himself and swung a hard-knuckled right to the side of Frazer’s head as he was coming over the bar. The blow should have put the lard-bellied saloonkeeper down and out, but Frazer merely batted his eyes, shook his head, and swung a bruising left hook that mauled Tallman’s ribs and sent him reeling backward. Like a lightning bolt, a Frazer right followed and grazed Tallman’s ear. His hands down now, the saloonkeeper lumbered forward, confident of a quick end to the fight.

  But Tallman snapped a rapid-fire right and left into Frazer’s bent nose and slowed him momentarily. Shrugging at the blows, Frazer whistled an uppercut past his face. Seizing the opportunity, Tallman unloaded a solid left into the barman’s soft belly. Air wooshed out in a sour wind and Frazer bent double. Tallman booted him in the crotch with all the power he had in his leg.

  “Achhhh,” Frazer grunted as he grabbed his balls.

  Tallman relaxed his stance momentarily and glanced toward Stroud. The scarface had a bloodlust in his eyes.

  Then Tallman’s eyes widened as Frazer suddenly reared upright, shouted a bull-like bellow, and charged with a cocked fist. Tallman ducked aside as the saloonkeeper threw a haymaker that would have shattered a marble statue. The swing threw the barkeep off balance and Tallman unleashed another blow on the soft meat in Frazer’s belly. The man’s eyes went wide and he bent forward uttering strange noises, his mouth oozing a thin stream of stringy yellow slime. Amidst the dead silence of the room, Tallman methodically hammered Frazer in the side of the head with three right h
ands.

  The stone-headed Frazer stumbled with each blow but didn’t fall. Tallman had never seen anyone take so much punishment in all his years of dealing out bare-knuckle justice.

  Frazer attempted to charge again, but Tallman saw that he was on the edge. As the stooped-over hulk trundled forward, Tallman merely stepped aside and kicked the saloonkeeper in the side of the knee. A loud crack permeated the room and a grunt of pain burst from Frazer’s lips. When Frazer reached for the broken knee, Tallman knuckled him right between the eyes. The stumbling form lurched sideways and fell onto a table, sending aloft a whirlwind of cards, glasses, whiskey bottles, and splintered tabletop. Groaning loudly and streaming blood from his nose, mouth, and a gaping cut over his left eye, Frazer rolled to one elbow in an attempt to get up. Tallman took two paces forward and kicked Frazer in the face. Teeth shattered and the saloonkeeper went face first into the rubble. He was out cold.

  Tallman turned slowly, facing down the rest of the men in the saloon. “Any more pisswillies here who wanna take up the fat man’s cause?”

  No one spoke. Most bystanders refused to meet his eyes.

  “We ought to buy that man a drink,” Vivian whispered in Stroud’s ear.

  “Hey, there!” bawled Doc, at once following her suggestion.

  Tallman spun, hands still balled in fists.

  “Buy you a drink?” Stroud asked, as he motioned him back to the table.

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “Name’s Stroud. C’mon and take a load off your feet.”

  With a casual air, Tallman strolled through the rubble that had been a poker game and stepped over Frazer’s limp form. He drew out a chair, reversed it, and straddled the seat with his lanky legs.

  A flurry of activity centered over Frazer and someone said: “Get Doc Washington.”

  Stroud laughed. Then seeing that Tallman didn’t get the joke, he explained. “Washington’s the African who runs the livery. Fair horse doctor, but that’s all.”

  Tallman smiled.

  “Quickest hands I seen in a while,” Stroud went on as he slid a glass toward Tallman and filled it with good rye. “What’s your handle?”

  “Dunn,” Tallman said, making every effort to appear a loner. “Hoodoo Dunn.”

  “Sounds like it belongs on a wanted poster. You ridin’ the owlhoot?”

  Tallman remained quiet and sipped his whiskey.

  “I mean, you don’t look like no boot drummer,” Doc added.

  “Don’t be bashful, Hoodoo,” Vivian chimed in. “Doc’s Chairman of the Board of a stagecoach business.”

  Jake, Kirk, and Doc all laughed at the gaudy saloon girl.

  “That’s right Hoodoo,” Stroud said, slurring his words. “Wells Fargo does all the work and we make the profits. If you get my meanin’?”

  “Hell,” Jake added. “Even Lizzie here’s on the run.”

  “Ain’t too many in Red Rock that ain’t,” the slender, black-haired Kirk busted in. “This here town ain’t ’zactly your center of culture.”

  “Come on,” Lizzie chided. “What’s the law want with a good-lookin’ man like Hoodoo Dunn?”

  Tallman drained his glass and poured another.

  “They hard on your trail?” Stroud asked.

  “Mebbe,” Tallman answered with a knowing grin.

  “You’ll be all right here,” Kirk said with authority. “Law mostly stays away from here. Some son-of-a-bitch with a star’d be backshot before he walked half of Main Street.”

  Tallman drank with Vivian and the three outlaws for the next hour. He held his tongue for the most part, revealing only bits and pieces of a tale about small-time bank robbery. In the years he’d worked undercover for Pinkerton, he’d found that a closed mouth is one of the best character disguises a man can use. It lent an air of mystery to the part he was playing. And, since most people were blowhards, it allowed one to appear different if the situation required it.

  After two hours of whiskey, gusty tales, and watching Doc and his two sidekicks dig at each other, Tallman realized he was hauling a good load of rye. Stroud had repeatedly hinted that they might use another hand, but he hadn’t come right out and asked. Vivian had discreetly informed him during the well-oiled conversation that there was a third member of Stroud’s gang who was on a rampage at the whorehouse on the edge of town. Finally it came.

  “I like you, Hoodoo,” Stroud said for the tenth time in the evening. “Took a likin’ to you the minute I saw you handle Chunk Frazer. He’s pure pecker-wood. He’s too stupid to know when he’s well off. Now, me, I like doin’ favors for fellers I respect. Law’s easy and scarce ’round these parts, so I’m sure you’ll be able to set up doin’ banks like you was before.” Stroud paused and gave Tallman a hard, squint-eyed look. “But keep in mind that we got a monopoly on the coaches, and anybody that fucks with our business gets his credit canceled, if you get my drift.”

  Tallman returned the look and nodded agreement.

  “Unless, of course, you want to join us. I’ve took note that you ain’t ’zactly buyin’ too much whiskey tonight. Which means you ain’t carrying gold.”

  “Jesus, Doc,” Kirk butted in. “You ain’t got the go-ahead on no more men.”

  Stroud eyed Kirk with a shut-up look.

  “No mind,” Tallman said to Kirk. “I ain’t never worked a team and I guess I ain’t about to start.”

  “Goddamnit,” Stroud said, switching tactics abruptly. “Ain’t too many men that turn down a split on twenty or thirty thousand in eagles and double eagles!”

  Tallman straightened in his chair, raised his eyebrows, and held his glass of whiskey in midair.

  “Easier haulin’ some backwater bank. All gold. And we come up with coin every time or we don’t ride,” Stroud said.

  Stroud fished a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket and slid it over under Tallman’s eyes. Tallman eyed the double eagle greedily.

  “Damnnn,” he sighed. “I could use a grubstake.”

  “Doc,” Jake said through his unkempt brown beard. “Pearl’s gonna cut your nuts.”

  FOUR

  Goddamn, Hoodoo, my head’s about to come off,” Stroud remarked as they loped single-file through a narrow pass. “Ain’t sucked down that much likker in some months.”

  “Feels like I got a blacksmith workin’ red-hot iron on the top o’ mine,” Tallman said truthfully, as he eyeballed the thousand-foot dropoff five feet to his right. He still didn’t know the gray gelding that well. One bad step and it would be a long time before he reached bottom.

  It was late afternoon, and the sun added to the misery of the five riders, all of whom had taken on a heavy cargo of popskull the night before. Except for the fuzz-faced kid, the riders kidded each other and laughed over already-exaggerated recollections of their exploits of the night before.

  “Damn shame, Doc,” Kirk went on. “I mean you missin’ out on tastin’ that Lizzie ’cause you was facedown asleep on the table.”

  The other three laughed. Doc was getting the worst of the jesting because he’d gotten so drunk he’d fallen asleep and no one had been able to wake him for five hours. For that, Vivian had been thankful.

  “Don’t fret none, Doc,” Jake chimed in. “Pearl’ll have ya pack her good when we get to camp.”

  Again they laughed at Doc.

  That was the second time he’d heard the name Pearl. He gathered that she must be the gang’s full-time cook and whore. He’d find that out soon enough.

  Toward sundown the chatter died, and the grubby and weary riders topped another narrow pass and headed down a spiraling, rocky trail. In minutes Tallman saw their destination. A half hour away, an island of cool green lay at the bottom of a hidden valley. A narrow stream passed through a wide, rocky river bed that would have boiled with white water during the spring thaw. A thin ribbon of smoke arose from a clump of trees fifty feet from the stream. In the open, to the right of the trees, a dilapidated small gray barn, constructed of random-sized boards, leane
d precariously toward the stream. A corral with half its rails missing was attached to the tilting barn. Some squatter’s shattered dream.

  It had been slow going on the narrow and rocky trail, but once they’d reached the grassy bottomland, Stroud spurred his horse into a fast trot and the others followed.

  A quarter-mile out, Tallman saw the source of the smoke. A crude, squat cabin lay in the grove of trees.

  “I can’t wait to see this,” Kirk said to the bearded Jake as they dismounted.

  “Do the horses,” Stroud said to the kid after he dismounted.

  Stroud and Tallman had to duck as they went through the six-foot door.

  “Pearl,” Stroud said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward Tallman. “Wan’cha ta meet Hoodoo Dunn.”

  Tallman leveled his eyes on the small, hawk-faced woman who sat in a crude chair behind a plank table. “Pleased to make the acquaintance, Pearl,” Tallman said without a smile as he touched the brim of his dusty Stetson.

  Pearl fixed her eyes in a devilish glare. The room got quiet. After a moment of silence, she looked toward Stroud.

  “You-outta-your-fucking-mind-bringing-a-stranger-here!” she exploded. “What the hell’s a matter with your lame ass.”

  “Wa . . . hell . . . Pearl . . . we can always use another good man,” Stroud stammered, obviously defensive, and openly afraid of the small woman. “I . . . I’ve heard you—”

  “You ain’t heard shit,” Pearl interrupted. “You stupid sonovabitch!”

  Kirk snickered.

  “Kirk! Shut up!” she shouted. “Jee-sus Christ. Damn you!” she said, turning back to Stroud. “You were drunk again. Weren’t you!”

  Tallman watched with fascination as Stroud stood with his head bowed and took her fusillade of insults. He was like a little kid taking a scolding for forgetting to feed the chickens. Kirk and Jake seemed to enjoy Stroud’s discomfort, but it was obvious that they would have cowered under a similar attack. He figured he better step in to help Stroud.

  “Ma’am,” Tallman broke in softly. “It weren’t exactly Doc’s fault.”