of the alley. It was less than two hours to sunup and most folks were off the street by now and home in bed, hoping their wives hadn’t heard them sneak in. A small crowd of the hangers-on gathered on the narrow mud- and shit-rutted path that was Bick Street. Others lurked on the partly warped wooden planks that were laid out on either side of the street, acting as sidewalks to allow gentlefolk to avoid the filth of the road. Many of the Dove’s working girls and some of their clients gathered on the porch to see what the commotion was about. There was almost a festive, party atmosphere to the gawkers, which made Mutt want to shoot each and every last one of them in the face. A few of the “Doves” ducked through the side door of their building to peek in the alleyway. When they saw what remained of their sister, the screaming began. The cry went up on the wind. Sadly, such sounds were all too familiar in the night air of Golgotha.
“Y’all git on back inside now,” Mutt shouted to the girls. Most obeyed, but a few and their male company crept out into the alleyway to get a closer look. Mutt desperately wished the sheriff were here. Jon Highfather was a leader; people respected him, liked him and listened to him. Mutt was none of that on his best day. He didn’t talk pretty and most of the town hated him and the rest were afraid of him. Jon wouldn’t be back till tomorrow, so Mutt had to do it his way and Jon could apologize to everyone for him when he got back.
“Listen up!” Mutt shouted. “This is now an official investigation of the sheriff’s office.”
“And what does that mean, Deputy Red Nigger,” one of the drunken miners on the Dove’s porch shouted back. A roar of laughter came up from the crowd. Mutt walked over, grabbed the miner by the collar and pulled him off the porch and over the rail, into the dirt. Mutt drew his pistol as fluidly as breathing and cocked and aimed at the stunned drunk on the ground. Mutt fired a single round. The crowd gasped and a few of the Doves screamed. One swooned and fainted.
The miner blinked and opened his eyes. There was a smoking bullet hole in the dirt next to his head.
“That’s Deputy Crazy Red Nigger, sir,” Mutt said loud enough for everyone to hear. “The next one of your pasty-faced lick-fingers who says anything other than ‘yes sir, Mr. Deputy, sir,’ to me, I will put a hole in you and let all the stupid leak out. Y’hear!”
The miner struggled to his feet. Mutt frowned and wrinkled up his nose. “Get your ass home, and for God’s sake, clean it up, you done gone and shit yourself.”
The miner staggered-ran toward his buddies, who rushed him away into the night, at arm’s length. He was rubbing his ears from the blast of the gun.
Jim walked up, still a little pale, with a big gent beside him.
“Doc Tumblety weren’t home,” Jim said. “I left a message with his boy, Rowley. Clay said he’d come, but he weren’t none too happy about it. And this here is the Dove’s manager.”
The man was over six foot eight, a good foot taller than Mutt at least. His muscles were barely contained by his clothing. He was dressed in an odd mixture of workingman and dandy: a simple linen white work shirt with a short collar, denim dungarees and heavy boots like those the miners wore, but also a proper gentleman’s waistcoat, made of brown dyed linen with brass buttons, and a gold watch chain attached to the coat and arching to the pocket. The man had brown hair cut fashionably short with a thick part from forehead almost to his nape. He had a short, neatly groomed beard and hazel eyes that gave away nothing of the intent behind them. He had an ugly wooden cudgel that looked small in his hands. He carried it as a walking stick. Mutt nodded at the giant.
“You’re the manager now?” Mutt said. “What happened to Ladenhiem?”
“Left town,” the man said. “Seems there was some kind of a problem with spiders? Things crawling out of
“Y’all git on back inside now,” Mutt shouted to the girls. Most obeyed, but a few and their male company crept out into the alleyway to get a closer look. Mutt desperately wished the sheriff were here. Jon Highfather was a leader; people respected him, liked him and listened to him. Mutt was none of that on his best day. He didn’t talk pretty and most of the town hated him and the rest were afraid of him. Jon wouldn’t be back till tomorrow, so Mutt had to do it his way and Jon could apologize to everyone for him when he got back.
“Listen up!” Mutt shouted. “This is now an official investigation of the sheriff’s office.”
“And what does that mean, Deputy Red Nigger,” one of the drunken miners on the Dove’s porch shouted back. A roar of laughter came up from the crowd. Mutt walked over, grabbed the miner by the collar and pulled him off the porch and over the rail, into the dirt. Mutt drew his pistol as fluidly as breathing and cocked and aimed at the stunned drunk on the ground. Mutt fired a single round. The crowd gasped and a few of the Doves screamed. One swooned and fainted.
The miner blinked and opened his eyes. There was a smoking bullet hole in the dirt next to his head.
“That’s Deputy Crazy Red Nigger, sir,” Mutt said loud enough for everyone to hear. “The next one of your pasty-faced lick-fingers who says anything other than ‘yes sir, Mr. Deputy, sir,’ to me, I will put a hole in you and let all the stupid leak out. Y’hear!”
The miner struggled to his feet. Mutt frowned and wrinkled up his nose. “Get your ass home, and for God’s sake, clean it up, you done gone and shit yourself.”
The miner staggered-ran toward his buddies, who rushed him away into the night, at arm’s length. He was rubbing his ears from the blast of the gun.
Jim walked up, still a little pale, with a big gent beside him.
“Doc Tumblety weren’t home,” Jim said. “I left a message with his boy, Rowley. Clay said he’d come, but he weren’t none too happy about it. And this here is the Dove’s manager.”
The man was over six foot eight, a good foot taller than Mutt at least. His muscles were barely contained by his clothing. He was dressed in an odd mixture of workingman and dandy: a simple linen white work shirt with a short collar, denim dungarees and heavy boots like those the miners wore, but also a proper gentleman’s waistcoat, made of brown dyed linen with brass buttons, and a gold watch chain attached to the coat and arching to the pocket. The man had brown hair cut fashionably short with a thick part from forehead almost to his nape. He had a short, neatly groomed beard and hazel eyes that gave away nothing of the intent behind them. He had an ugly wooden cudgel that looked small in his hands. He carried it as a walking stick. Mutt nodded at the giant.
“You’re the manager now?” Mutt said. “What happened to Ladenhiem?”
“Left town,” the man said. “Seems there was some kind of a problem with spiders? Things crawling out of
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