Savage Guns

SEVENTEEN

I found Judge Nippers in his office, nipping a little amber stuff from a flask.

“Come in, boy, and join the party,” he said.

He handed me the flask. “I’m on duty,” I said.

“Well, so am I. A little hooch improves duty.”

He sure was an ugly cuss, who reminded me of a bullfrog, except bullfrogs look nicer and got no hair. Nippers had hair going in the wrong direction all the time, which he oiled down with lamb fat or something. It sure made the top of his head look slippery, which is probably how his mind worked too. I never met no one with such a slippery mind as Judge Nippers. He made most of the county lawyers look like virgins.

I took the flask, since he was wavin’ it before my eyes like I had some duty to perform, and sipped a little. It sure wasn’t red-eye; it was something smooth and fine. He must have got it sent to Doubtful, because there wasn’t stuff like that served in any saloon I knew of.

“You’ve come to talk about the hanging,” he said. “You’re going to tell me you’re not up to pulling that lever and sending that brat to his fate. You’re going to tell me to bring in a professional hangman.”

“Well, it crossed my mind,” I said.

“You don’t enjoy hangings.”

“Well, it ain’t high on my list of pleasures.”

“It beats having a woman, but isn’t as good as a satisfying trip to the outhouse. A good trip to the outhouse is the most underrated event on earth.”

I sure didn’t know how to talk to a judge talkin’ like that. He nipped another sip from his flask and smiled, revealing yeller teeth between crusty lips.

“You nip your way through a trial?” I asked.

“A good nip improves the sentence. I never lay a sentence on anyone until I’ve refueled a little.”

“Improves?”

“You bet, young fellow. Justice is sublime. It takes a keen understanding to fashion a sentence that fits the crime. A good nip will inspire me to improve the sentence by two or three years.”

I hardly dared ask which direction. He smiled cheerfully, and scratched flakes of dry flesh off his jowls. “I believe you repaired to my chambers to discuss something,” he said.

“I don’t need to repair nothing.”

“Repaired, to make one’s way.”

“You sure got a few years of school on me, Judge.”

“You can cure that with a sip or two.”

“I guess what I come to ask is whether you can stop a hanging.”

“Yes, I can stay it.”

“What would that take?”

“New and compelling evidence.”

“Otherwise, you just let her rip?”

“Otherwise, you the sheriff will pull the lever, and our young prisoner drops about ten feet and dangles with a broken neck, and justice is entirely done, and the world is made whole again.”

“I’ve got an itch about this, Your Honesty.”

“Your Honor.”

“My honor’s fine. Doing a hanging’s about as hard as it goes, but there’s one thing worse.”

“Worse, worse? How could anything be worse?”

“Hanging an innocent man.”

“Ah, you’re getting soft. I thought you were a tough sonofabitch, Pickens. You’ve gone soft on me.”

“I do what I have to do, sir.”

“I can see it. About ten minutes before you’re required to pull the lever at eleven in the morning, and drop King Bragg, you’ll resign. You’ll say you’re not up to sheriffing anymore, so here’s the badge, and you’re on your way to California or the Fiji Islands or someplace like that where you can eat coconuts, and sun on the beach. Fess up now, Pickens. I’ve got the measure of you.”

“You calling me something?”

He smiled. “Nothing you wouldn’t call yourself.”

That sure hurt. I sorta had to admit to it, all right. I just ached not to say another word, but I made myself. “I sorta think maybe the Bragg boy’s innocent.”

“Innocent? Just by carrying the name of Bragg, he’s guilty as hell.”

“Well, I’m not sure he done it. I think something happened in there and I don’t know what, and I need to find out.”

“This is pure cotton.”

“Well, that’s how I’m called, all right, but I’ve learned a few things.”

“You can tell me, but it won’t budge me one iota.” He took a hearty sip of whiskey, just to make his point.

“Them three that got kilt, the Jonas brothers and the one called Rocco, they was bad apples, with some dodgers on them for rustling and stuff.”

“Good riddance then.”

“Yeah, well, there’s some calves out on the T-Bar with altered brands, like they’d been mavericked. And I was sort of wondering how Crayfish Ruble is dealing with that. Maybe the Jonas brothers were nipping calves from their boss. And Rocco was in there somehow.”

Nippers smiled. “Why, obviously Crayfish arranged for the Bragg boy to come into the Last Chance and blow them off.”

He was chortling, but damned if that wasn’t what was gonging in my head these times.

“Judge, they sort of goaded him to go over there to the Last Chance. He was drinkin’ an ale nice and peaceful over to the Sampling Room, when Ruble’s foreman, he come in and began working on the boy, getting him to come next door because they was saying stuff about Admiral Bragg.”

“Well, Admiral Bragg deserves everything they say about him.”

“So the kid went over there, ordered a drink, and someone hit him and next he knew he was on the floor holding his hot revolver, and there’s bodies around.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all in the trial record.”

“What if the boy didn’t do it?”

Nippers stared. “You got even the tiniest shred of evidence?”

“King Bragg don’t remember it.”

Nippers guffawed and wiped more flaky flesh off his jowls. “You got to do better than that, boy.”

I could see how it was going, and I was getting mad myself. I’ve got a temper, and that judge was working it. “I’ll keep looking, and if I find out something, I’m coming back here and I’m going to ask you to stop this hanging.”

“Fat chance,” he said, and nipped another.

I got out of there. Nippers had already hanged the boy in his mind, and wouldn’t be changing anything before the necktie party. Maybe the boy was guilty as hell; that’s what the jury said. But Nippers wasn’t going to help much even if I found some new evidence.

I knew who I wanted to talk to. That dirtbag foreman Plug Parsons, him who lured King Bragg over to the other bar, and testified that the boy killed three men there. Plug was always sort of smirky, and I never much cared for him, but now I cared even less. He’d either be at Rosie’s or at the Last Chance Saloon, so I hightailed it over to the saloon and looked around in there, but I didn’t see him. There was a mess of T-Bar men in there, whistling at me when I walked in, and makin’ jokes, but no Parsons. Upward, he just stared at me and then watched me leave. I wasn’t welcome around there, but where is a sheriff ever welcome?

So maybe it would be Rosie’s. I walked right in, past the unlit red lamp, it being afternoon. The place stank. The T-Bar men smelled worse than hogs. Parsons, he wasn’t in the parlor or kitchen or nowhere downstairs, so I tried all the doors upstairs, and checked out a couple of snoring males, but Parsons wasn’t in there either. I guess I just would have to wait. Truth to tell, I was itching to grab a fistful of shirt and hammer on Parsons until he talked. But first I had to find him.

Doubtful ain’t a big place, but a man could still hide himself in town for a while if he wanted to. I didn’t see anyone resembling Parsons, who was pretty solid beef from head to toe, so I decided to check on Critter. I hiked over to Turk’s livery barn and found Critter gnawing on the gate, which was bad. You don’t want a gate-chewin’ horse around.

“Cut it out,” I yelled.

Critter just yawned.

“You’ll wear down your teeth and die young,” I said.

“You talking about me?” someone asked.

It was Plug Parsons, standing in the aisle behind me.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I got some questions to ask about that night that the T-Bar men got shot.”

“I’ve already testified, Sheriff.”

“I got a few more ends to tie up. Did you go into the Sampling Room and dog the boy some?”

Parsons yawned. “I thought maybe you wanted to talk about something else. That was weeks ago. Forget it.”

“We’re gonna talk about that, and I want some answers. What did you tell the boy? Why did you lure him over to the Last Chance?”

Parsons hoisted his gun belt around a little, and I didn’t miss it.

“You trying to spring that little killer, Sheriff?”

“Maybe he should be sprung,” I said.

He grabbed a handful of my shirt and yanked me tight. It didn’t surprise me. Some foremen are like that.

“You’re a two-bit punk with a shiny badge,” he said. “Grow up.”

“My ma says I’m big for my age,” I said.

He kneed me but missed. His ham fist swung around behind me, but I shoved him down fast and hard. He landed in manure, and sprang up quick, reaching for his Peacemaker. But he was slower than me; mine was out and pointed. He saw that muzzle aimed between his eyeballs and sort of settled down some. His hat rested on a pile of fresh green apples.

“Now answer my questions, and do it right,” I said.

He just stared at me.

“What happened when King walked in?”

Plug was beet red, hotter than a boiler.

“Who was in there? You and Upward and who else?”

Plug, he just glared.

“What knocked that boy into the sawdust?”

Plug was steaming now, and a little blood oozed from a cut lip.

“Who shot those three T-Bar men?”

Plug’s eyes gave him away. He wasn’t very good at hiding things. But neither was he talking.

“Whose gun kilt them men?”

This time he answered quietly. “It’s all in my sworn testimony.”

“Your testimony’s a lot of bull.”

He was standing there, wondering which way to jump.

“Lean against that wall,” I said. “Hands high.”

He was slow about it, but he obeyed, and I grabbed his revolver.

“All right, I’m locking you up. Walk in front of me.”

“For what?”

“I’ll think of something,” I said.

I could see he was about to try something, so I buffaloed him. That barrel made a dent in his skull, but it taught him a little respect.

“Walk,” I said.

He wobbled out of the livery barn, me behind him, and headed along the street, making a spectacle. But no one stopped us.

There was a couple of them T-Bar men lounging around the sheriff office.

“I’ve got an itchy finger,” I told them.

Plug shook his head and they got the message.

Rusty must have seen me coming, because the door swung open and I jabbed Plug into the office. The door swung shut behind us.

“What’d he do?” Rusty asked.

“I’ll figure it out,” I said.

Rusty opened the iron door to the cells, and we patted down Parsons and then shoved him into one and slammed the door. Across the aisle, King Bragg was staring at us.

Parsons had a lump on his head, and rubbed it. “What to know something?” he said. “I’m going to kill you. Maybe not now, but soon. You can count on it. And if I don’t, my men will. There’s not a one wouldn’t plug you on sight. You and everyone you hire. You know what, Sheriff? You just bought the ranch.”