The black vaquero teetered on his heels, taking a few seconds to come to terms with his own death, then fell back and landed hard on the straw-strewn floor. Chair legs scraped and señoritas screamed, the fat mustached man behind the bar shaking his head with disgust as he wiped a glass with a rag.
What the hell? the Preacherman thought. In a place like this in this part of town, a shooting wouldn’t amount to much. Hollis was digging some half eagles out of his pocket when he saw something that, for the first time this evening, caused him alarm.
That bearded old coot of a deputy stood in the doorway, a double-barreled shotgun over his arm.
Jonathan Tulley, after locking up that sidewinder Trammel’s .45 in the jailhouse safe, had not returned to the Victory, having had his fill of sarsaparilla for one night. Instead, he had taken up the nightly patrol, which was a big part of his job as deputy. This consisted of checking doors and alleys on Main Street, and walking the side and back streets to make sure no devilry was afoot.
When he collected his scattergun at the office, the wall clock had said 11:10 p.m. This was late for him to be starting patrol, which he usually began at sundown and kept up till the Victory was shut tight. But tonight was different: he’d had that special undercover assignment from the sheriff, to hang out at the saloon and keep an eye on the Preacherman and them two hard cases he rode with.
Often Tulley made the barrio, that shabby cluster of low-slung adobe-brick buildings opposite the jailhouse, the last stop of his night patrol. That was because the deputy lived at the office, sleeping on a cot in one of the cells. And saving the barrio for last left Tulley close to home when he finished up.
In his loose canvas trousers and BVD shirt, Tulley found the night cold enough to give him some shivers. The sheriff had advised him to spruce up his duds some, more suitable like to a deputy, but Tulley had never got around to it. He had a daughter in Denver, living with his brother and wife; he was saving up money for the girl. Ella would be sixteen now. Last saw her at six, when her mother died of the smallpox. Anyway, he liked that BVD feel, though a buckskin jacket this time of year might make a wise investment.
His shotgun over one arm, Tulley started down the central lane of the modest barrio, which was quiet and dark now, the dusty path free of barking dogs and scurrying chickens, not a light burning in a single window. That is, not a one till he approached the two-story structure at the dead end of the facing rows of adobe huts. There the windows glowed yellow on the first floor, with more yellow above, thanks to flickering candlelight in rooms where them fallen women practiced their sweet and sinful trade.
Big, red, weather-faded letters above the archway door said CANTINA DE TORO ROJO. A cowboy and a señorita sauntered out, hanging on to each other, both three sheets to the wind. They went up the exposed wooden staircase on the right side of the place, and Tulley saw the female wasn’t as drunk as she pretended to be.
Horses lined the leather-glazed hitch rail; guitar music and conversation murmured at the open windows. Nothing out of the ordinary. Tulley made his way to the door and was almost inside when the gunshot shook the room, and the deputy.
That same saddle bum who had given the sheriff trouble at the Victory was standing there with a big smoking six-gun in his hand, looming over a cowboy on his back on the floor, staring up with eyes that weren’t seeing a damn thing. People were on their feet and would have rushed out if Tulley and his scattergun hadn’t been in the way, and the señoritas were screaming their fool heads off — in particular, the one near the shooting.
“Just hold ’er right there!” Tulley yelled, and he swung his shotgun to and fro so’s people could tell he was serious. The badge on his chest said the same.
That tall, skinny Trammel was looking over his shoulder at Tulley with them weird bulging eyes, and the deputy let him use them bulgers to have a look down the twin black holes of the shotgun.
“Set that iron down, sonny,” Tulley said. “Slow and no tricks. You wouldn’t look no worse with your head blowed off.”
The buzzard bent at his knees and set the gun down nice and easy — feller was smart enough, anyways, to know that throwing it down hard might discharge the thing and kill somebody. Another somebody.
“All right, mister,” Tulley told the now-unarmed killer, “you set yourself down at the table there. You, too, señorita. Right now!”
They did so.
“Pedro!” Tulley called out.
The sawed-off guitarist, who was cowering in the corner, trying to hide under his sombrero, called back, “Qué quieres, señor?”
“Git the dickens over here.”
Pedro got the dickens over there.
Sombrero in hand now, the guitarist asked again, “Qué quieres?”
“Go find the sheriff. Should be at the Victory.”
“Si no?”
“Well, if not, might be in his room at the hotel.” Tulley made room for him. “Go!”
Pedro went.
So fast you could hear the dust kick up.
Tulley positioned himself in the doorway again, blocking the way, or, anyway, his scattergun did. Everyone was back in their chairs. The Preacherman and the other varmint that traveled with this Trammel seemed to be going out of their way not to look in his. Cesar, the bartender, also the proprietor, was leaning his elbows on the bar, his folded hands under his chin. He looked bored and kind of put upon.
Pedro did welclass="underline" within five minutes Caleb York sidled up at Tulley’s side. The sheriff patted his deputy on the shoulder, then took a few steps inside. He cast his eyes around the room slowly, then wound up looking down at the dead man but not going over to do so.
“Anyone check him?” York asked.
Heads shook; shoulders shrugged.
“Doesn’t look to be breathin’,” York admitted. “Cesar, have a look-see.”
Cesar came around the bar and went over to kneel by the fallen cowboy. The proprietor’s pudgy fingers searched for a pulse in the man’s neck. Failing, he looked up at York and said, “Está muerto, Sheriff.”
York curled a finger, and Cesar came over to him, in no hurry.
“What happened here?” York asked.
Before Cesar answered, the seated Trammel yelled, “It was a fair fight! Nigger drew down on me. He went for it first!”
York looked hard at Cesar.
Cesar smirked and held his hands open. “Quién sabe?”
“I will tell you who knows,” Alver Hollis said in a calm, commanding voice worthy of a pulpit. He swung around in his chair and gave York a steady, unblinking look. “I know. I saw it. Everyone saw it. That black son of a bitch pulled on my friend. It’s as clear a case of self-defense as ever was seen on God’s green earth.”
Twitching half a smile, York said, “How about on indoor straw?”
Hollis stiffened. “That’s how it happened.”
York pushed his hat on the back of his head. “Is there a Bible verse that covers it, Preacherman?”
“Any number. For example, ‘For he is the servant of God, who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer.’ Romans thirteen, four.”
“Somehow I knew it wouldn’t be the one about turnin’ the other cheek... Anyone else here see anything different?”
Around the room came more head shakes and mumbled negatives.
Tulley slipped up by the sheriff and whispered, “That señorita over there, same table as the troublemaker? She’s the cause.”
York turned his gaze on the girl. “How about it, señorita? Did the cowboy draw first?”
She glanced at Trammel, who was glowering at her, then nodded.