BEELZEBUB Jonas Cane, U.S. Marshal

Book Two

Published by Vandcast Press

Copyright ©2013, 2016 P. K. Vandcast

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All characters in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to actual persons are purely coincidental.

Although the cities of Bisbee, Tucson and Tombstone are actual places in the state of Arizona in the United States of America, the locations, geography and layout of the cities have been changed or made up entirely from the author’s

imagination in order to keep from casting any negative association with actual persons, residences, private or public businesses, etc. Any similarities to actual places, geography

or locations are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Beelzebub

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Thank You

Beelzebub

Noun; Satan, "the prince of this world" and "the prince of the power of the air";

Sometimes translated as "the lord of the flies"

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Chapter 1

Listen, evil has taken up residence in Bisbee, Arizona.

The macabre bloodshed at the Bar Double R was the beginning of an insidious plague. The gates of hell were opened the night the Roeter family was butchered and horror brooded over the face of Cochise County in unspeakable darkness.

* * *

“We don’t take to gadabouts in Bisbee,” Jonas Cane said with a suspicious eye on Palmer L. Jackson. “So you can just high tail it back to Tombstone.” Cane and Jackson stood on Main Street’s boardwalk in front of the Assay Office next to the Bisbee Bank.

“Haven’t you heard, marshal?” Jackson replied innocently. “I don’t ride with Clanton or McLaury anymore. I’ve relocated to Bisbee and I’ve hung up my leggins.” Jackson was from Texas but he was educated back east. Except for his faint southern drawl, he would have passed for a dude by his diction. Jackson was also known for his fancy Spanish rider’s chaps or “leggins” as they called them in south Texas; but he was not wearing them. He was dressed in a brown suit, a clean starched collar, and a brown derby.

“The dickens you say.”

“True as a tee-totaller. I purchased a place in Brewery Gulch last week.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It is indeed.” Jackson pulled a folded document from his left breast pocket and handed it to Cane.

Cane unfolded the deed and scanned it quickly. “So you bought the Savoy Hotel from Heinrich Mueller.” The Savoy was a four-story hotel with a dining room converted into a saloon and gambling hall; the second floor was a brothel. The building stood next to Mueller’s brewery, The Rhinelander. Where did Jackson get the money for this? He’s up to

something. Cane handed the deed back to Jackson. “Looks legal.”

“Oh, it is, marshal. It is,” smiled Jackson as he slipped the paper back into his coat pocket.

“You can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll be checkin’ it out.”

Jackson smiled innocently.

“If it’s not square, you’ll be seeing me later.”

“You have a reputation as a constable that cares about his community, marshal. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m glad I’m settling down here.”

Cane turned from Jackson and started walking down the boardwalk in the direction of his office. He was not more than four steps away when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Cane stopped and turned slightly to see Jackson standing where he left him, smiling, and staring at Cane with a look that could stop a clock. For the entire conversation with Jackson, Cane could not anticipate a word of their conversation; and that was strange. The marshal had not had the blank feeling since… the day he watched the man who murdered the Roeters die. Marshal Cane was a man not easily riled or stirred, but he was disturbed by Jackson’s smile. He could not put his finger on it, but he knew, whatever it was, he didn’t like it one bit. Cane turned as abruptly as he halted and continued walking down the boardwalk to his office.

Jackson continued to smile as he watched Cane walk down the boardwalk.

Cane placed his hand on the doorknob to his office and looked down the boardwalk to see Jackson, standing exactly as he left him, smiling. Why are you here, Jackson?

Palmer Jackson continued looking down the boardwalk as he watched Cane disappear into the marshal’s office. Two flies circled in front of his face, buzzing by one another as if they were in an aerial dance. Jackson grinned more broadly. The flies continued their midair samba until Jackson held out the palm of his hand. The flies lighted upon his palm and as the

male oriented to face the female, he rattled his one wing to begin the mating song. “Nice,” Jackson whispered to his insect friends. “Very nice."

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Chapter 2

Cane shook off the eerie feeling he received from Jackson just as an explosion rocked the distant landscape. A Cochise County ordinance kept mine blasting restricted between eight in the morning and six in the evening.

Cane stepped into his office just as Dan Tanner came from the back office with a broom in his hand. The marshal took off his Stetson and placed it on the wall next to Dan’s hat. He took off his coat as well and placed it on the last peg in the row. He went to his desk immediately and sat down. There was a small, covered picnic basket on the far right corner of the desk.

To the young deputy, Cane seemed a little preoccupied. Dan stepped into the main office and said, “Hi, marshal, would you—”

“I would love a cup of Arbuckle’s, son. Much obliged.”

Dan propped his broom up in the far corner and was already headed to the stove to fetch some coffee. “Yessir, I was just going—”

“—to get yourself a cup of Arbuckle’s when I came in,” Cane said, finishing Dan’s sentence without looking up. Cane pulled a box of .45 rounds from his desk and stood up. He skinned his Army Colt Peacemaker and set the gun on his desk. Dan set Cane’s thick white mug next to the marshal’s pistol on the desk while the marshal unbuckled his gun belt. Cane sat back down and began filling the cartridge loops of his gun belt with bullets from the box.

“You exp—”

“Nope; not expecting any trouble, but it’s always good to be prepared.”

“Sompbin’ bah—”

“No, son. Nothing’s bothering me. Why do you ask?”

“Well sir…” Dan began and then paused for a few moments until Cane stopped loading cartridges into his belt.

Cane looked at Dan with tired eyes. He hadn’t slept well the past few nights. He knew what the young deputy was going to say. That was his gift as well as his curse. “Go on, deputy, I’m listening.”

“Marshal, I’ve known you for a good spell now. An’ I know I seen some things ‘bout yeh that most ain’t seen or heard. Most folks thinks that when yeh finish their sentences that it’s a curiosity. Mayhap even a novelty, but this is the first time I ever heard yeh go on three or four times in a row. So, the way I figures it, somethin’ must really be botherin’ you.”

Though he was young, just twenty years old, he was quite observant and insightful. Anyone in Bisbee who knew Dan could see it. The marshal could see it better than others. If it were for that reason alone, Cane would have kept Dan on as a deputy town marshal; but Dan was genial and the marshal genuinely liked the boy. He was humble too. Whenever anyone praised the deputy’s cleverness, he would reply, “I reckon I’ll just hafta stick close to the marshal then ‘cause his smarts is rubbin’ off on me.”

The marshal reflected upon the situation. He had never done that more than once in a conversation, if that— speaking aloud what he knew someone was going to say. Once was uncanny. Twice was unbelievable. More than that would be unnerving for anyone and even downright frightening for some. Only those with whom the marshal had a close relationship ever noticed his ability to anticipate a second or so of the future. Dan was one of them. Doc Miller was another. Judge DeWitt Bisbee had also noticed. And yes, there was something bothering Marshal Cane: Palmer L. Jackson. I can’t tell him that; that the one thing that got him nervy today was

the one thing I couldn’t do around Palmer Jackson. But what can I tell him? “I’m sorry, son. Something is bothering me. Did you know that Palmer Jackson bought the Savoy?”

Dan poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down in one of the two chairs across from the marshal’s desk. “Well, sir, I knew he pulled up stakes in Tombstone an’ been bidin’ his time in Bisbee. But I ain’t heard about the Savoy.”

The two peace officers sat in silence sipping on their respective coffees. Cane finished filling his cartridge loops and holstered his talking iron, leaving his belt on the desk next to the box of bullets. After a few minutes, Cane felt Dan’s next words and they were disturbing— even more disturbing when the deputy said them aloud.

“You know, marshal. They was near twenty riders come in from Tombstone when Frank Stilwell come back to the Bar Double R— you know, ta go after Caroline and that bastard what killed the Roeters an’ Caroline. One of ‘em what came out was Palmer Jackson.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Jackson rode with the Cowboys and Behan deputizes a lot of them when he rides.”

“I’d plumb forgot about it, ‘til yeh mentioned Jackson’s name— but anyways, he went into the house ta take a look-see, an’ after everyone was out ‘the house, Jackson lingered on for, I dunno, five minutes. Sheriff Behan had ta send Frank Stilwell in ta fetch ‘im— an’ when he come out… I dunno, marshal… they was sompbin’ different ‘bout ‘im.”

I know, Dan. I’ve seen the difference this morning. Cane eyed the basket on his desk. “Go ahead and have you some of Miss’s Kahler’s biscuits ‘fore they get too cold, yeh hear.”

“Yessir,” Dan said as he stood up, uncovered the basket and reached in to the basket. Dan wondered if the marshal was doing it again or if he could smell the biscuits and bacon too. “You want some, marshal?”

“No thank you, son. Coffee’ll do me fine for now.” The thought of Jackson made him lose his appetite. Boothe is here.

David Boothe was previously a part-time deputy town marshal but agreed to work five to ten more hours per week since the need for more law enforcement arose with the growth of Bisbee. In the autumn of 1881, Bisbee was the fastest growing town without a railroad in both the Arizona and New Mexico territories. Because of town growth, Marshal Cane also hired three other full-time deputies: Leonard “Len” Spivey, Geoffrey “Jeff” Skinner and Joseph “Talkin’ Joe” Hardy.

Dan pulled out a biscuit and broke it in half. He reached in again and put two thick slabs of bacon between the halves, sat down and just as he was about to take a bite, Boothe burst through the door.

Boothe panted heavily and tried to catch his breath. Dan got up, holding his biscuit and closed the door behind David Boothe. Boothe bent over slightly with his knees bent and his palms on his thighs. Dan returned to his chair and sat down.

“You okay?” Cane asked Boothe. Wild Juan.

Boothe lifted his right hand with a reassuring wave, still out of breath. “Wild Juan,” finally escaped from his mouth between breaths.

“Wild Juan… Espinoza?” Dan asked after swallowing a mouthful of biscuit. “Ain’t he locked up at the Yuma Prison?”

Breathing a bit more slowly and steadier, Boothe stood straight up. “Nope. He’s in the Gulch; having breakfast down at Emma’s Home Cookin’. An’ he’s—”

“—Gunnin’ for me,” Cane said, finishing Boothe’s sentence. Although Cane felt his words before Boothe thought to say them, anyone in the territory could have finished that sentence. Wild Juan vowed to kill Jonas Cane.

“Where’s Len?” Dan asked.

Cane already felt the words and the trouble.

“Juan shot ‘im. He’s madder than a hornet in a hailstorm.”

Cane stood up immediately and began putting his gun belt on.

Dan stood up as well and set his half-eaten biscuit on Cane’s desk next to the basket.

“Said he’d be waitin’ fer yeh in the Savoy, marshal,” Boothe added.

Cane and Dan walked to the pegs on the wall to retrieve their coats and hats.

While he ran one arm into the sleeve of his duster, Dan paused for a moment and turned his head toward Boothe. “Why was you so outta breath?” Dan asked him.

“Well,” he said with a that-ought-to-be-obvious tone and emphasis, “I runn’d all the way up heres from the Gulch.”

“Yeh didn’t ride?”

“Dagnabbit!” Boothe exclaimed as he pulled off his Woolsey hat and slapped it on his thigh. He had forgotten his horse… again. Although Boothe was sometimes a tad on the forgetful side, he was the finest rifle marksman in the territory so Cane kept him on.

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Chapter 3

Since daylight splashed in through the windows and the batwing doors of the Savoy’s saloon and gambling hall, the smoke from stale cigars and hand-rolled cigarettes was clearly visible and hung like a cloud over the entire room. Many of the third shift miners were there carrying on and having a good time. There was also a large mix of non-Bisbee residents here to partake of the first-ever Oktoberfest activities sponsored by the breweries in the Gulch.

Wild Juan Espinoza sat alone at his own table in the Savoy Saloon. A bottle of tequila and a shot glass sat in front of him. He sat facing the entrance of the saloon. Several people recognized him and stayed clear. “He’s plumb loco,” was a term often applied to Wild Juan. He was also known to others

as “The Mean Mex” and “The Crazy Caballero” but few people would dare say it to his face; and those that had spoken such thoughts aloud became buzzard bait or have taken up residence in new, underground environs such as Boot Hill, courtesy of Wild Juan’s Navy Colts.

Espinoza was mean and spiteful; and he was as flamboyant as he was mean. Speculation in the territory suggests that his temperament got worse when the Catholic Church in Sonora excommunicated him for his sexual orientation. Rumor had it that he was sweet on William “Little Bob” Kellog. Little Bob was a petty thief who escalated to armed robbery after hooking up with Wild Juan.

Palmer L. Jackson leaned against the end of the bar and watched Wild Juan with joyful curiosity. He picked up his empty mug and raised it toward the bar dog, but Jed Tyson, wasn’t tending bar as he should. He was preoccupied in his flirtations with a pretty little saloon girl. Jackson licked his lips and cocked his head slightly. Dance, my friends. Two blowflies started buzzing around Tyson’s head. Tyson swatted at the flies in midair but they kept on buzzing around and lighting upon him for nineteen seconds and they were gone, disappeared. Jackson watched in amusement. I need to get Palmer L. a beer.

“I need to get Palmer L. a beer,” Tyson told the prostitute as he retrieved a clean glass from under the counter top.

“Palmer L.? Who’s Palmer L.?” she asked.

Jackson watched the exchange with evil delight. My new boss.

“My new boss,” he said as he filled the mug with draft beer from the tap on the bar.

“What does the L stand for?” she asked Tyson.

Jackson cocked his head again and blowflies started to buzz around the girl’s head.

She attempted to brush them away with her hand but she could not. “What did you say the L was for?” she repeated, still swatting ineffectively at the blowflies.

Jackson smiled and the flies disappeared. The L? ‘Ell if I know.

Tyson finished filling the mug of draft. He looked at the girl sternly. “The L? ‘Ell if I know.” Tyson took the filled mug of draft to Jackson at the end of the bar. “Here’s your beer, Mr. Jackson.”

“Please, Jed, call me Palmer L,” Jackson invited. No sir, Mr. Jackson, I can’t do that. I’m a gall-damned lick-spittle and I need my job.

“No sir, Mr. Jackson, I can’t do that. I’m a gall-damned lick-spittle and I need my job.”

“Very well then.”

“Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“If I think of something, I’ll let you know.”

Jackson turned his attention once more to Wild Juan. He stared at the top of his sombrero for a moment, which hung on his back by a string attached to the hat. Jackson picked up his mug of draft and walked to Espinoza’s table.

Espinoza continued to stare at the batwing doors of the saloon entrance when Palmer L. Jackson stood across the table from him. “D’jou need to move, gringo,” Wild Juan said to Jackson in his distinctive Mexican accent. “D’jou know who I am?”

“I know who you are,” Jackson said, sitting down in the chair across from Espinoza. “Do you know who I am?”

“Si, I know who d’jou are. D’jou’re da gringo dat’s going to be fill’d wid lead if ‘d’jou don’t get out of here.” Espinoza skinned his Navy Colt from its holster slick as you please and pointed it at Jackson. “Fuera de aqui.”

Jackson cocked his head and a single, fat, female blowfly began buzzing around Wild Juan’s head. Wild Juan attempted unsuccessfully to brush the fly away. “You’re not going to shoot me,” Jackson told the mean Mexican. The fly lighted on his ear and then crawled in.

“I’m not going to choot d’jou,” Wild Juan said. Like the others Jackson manipulated, Espinoza did not look like he was dazed or beside himself. He said those words as naturally as if he spoke his own thoughts. The Savoy Saloon continued to bustle with excitement, yet no one paid any attention to Jackson or Wild Juan.

“That’s right, because you just realized that I’m Palmer L. Jackson, the owner of the Savoy.”

“Si, I know d’jou, Senor Yackson.”

“Then put away your pistola and tell me why you’re here.”

Wild Juan holstered his sidearm and said candidly, “I’m here to keell Cane.”

“We all know that, you stupid Mex scalawag. What are you doing in my saloon? Digame ahora.”

“Dreenking dees tequila— waiting for Cane. When he come, den I keell him.”

“In here?”

“Si.”

“No. You take your killing upstairs or out in the street.” Jackson smiled as he looked just behind Wild Juan, to his left. A black cloud of blowflies circled and flew and whirled wildly from the ceiling to the floor. No one seemed to pay the blowflies any mind, neither did they care for the disgusting spectacle they made. Maggots wriggled in a huge heap below the black cloud of insects. Larva fell into the spiraling cloud of flies from the black hole in the ceiling. “No, not in this room.”

“Not in dees room,” said Wild Juan. The blowfly crawled out of Espinoza’s ear, flew about his head, and landed on his upper lip. The fly crawled into his left nostril.

“None of your crazy caballero horseshit. Comprende?”

“Si, yo comprendo.”

“And if you ever have a thought to point a gun at me again, you just jerk your smoke pole and blow your brains out.”

Wild Juan drew his pistol smoothly and put the gun to his temple, quickly cocking the hammer. “Like dees?” When he spoke, the blowfly emerged from his mouth. The female fly was smaller now. She had laid eggs.

Jackson nodded with a smile. “Si.”

* * *

Cane walked into Emma’s Home Cooking. It was nothing more than a huge canvas tent in an alley between a brewery and a brothel. Emma still had a pretty good crowd and none of them were bothered at all that Doc Miller was working on the bloody left thigh of Len Spivey near the tent entrance. Doc’s young wife, Annabel, knelt on the other side of Spivey, facing her husband.

Spivey leaned hard against the timber at the entrance as Doc worked on his leg. His left pant leg was neatly splayed from the thigh down.

“Howdy, Doc,” Cane said as he towered over the three. He tipped his hat to Annabel and politely acknowledged her, “Miss’s Miller.” Some folks thought Cane’s manner odd with respect to women. Many men in the territory viewed females as little more than property, a little lower than a milk cow; and since Annabel had been a prostitute at the Bisbee Queen prior to marrying Doc Miller, a few pompous and self-important Bisbee residents turned a presumptuous nose away from the former Annabel Bowles, the current Mrs. Annabel Miller. Nevertheless, no one would dare say what they thought aloud as it was well known that Doc Miller and Jonas Cane were close friends.

Annabel smiled with an affirming nod. She appreciated the marshal’s kindness.

“Marshal,” Doc greeted him with a low grunt as he tightened the tourniquet above the wound, “I’d give you a proper greeting, but as you can see, sir, my hands are rather full at the moment.”

“No need puttin’ on airs for me anyhow, Doc. You know that.” Cane cocked his head a bit one way and then the other as he looked at Len Spivey. “You doin’ alright, Len?”

Spivey attempted a nod and then bit down hard on the makeshift mouthpiece Doc gave him. Doc wrapped a fork in a heavy linen napkin for Spivey to chomp down on when it got painful. Spivey bit down hard again with a muffled scream as Doc poked the underside of Spivey’s thigh.

“My apologies, sir,” Doc said in his refined Cajun accent. “Annabel, honey, give him another shot of that liqueur.” There was a bottle and glass beside her, and Annabel picked them up as Doc Miller stood up. “It hasn’t hit an artery, so he’ll be fine there,” he said to Cane as he mopped his forehead with a white handkerchief stained with blood. “If he were shot with a .45 at that range, it may have just gone straight through; but that damn fool Mex uses a Navy Colt and a few of his loads may also be light.”

“Whatcha gonna… do, Doc?” Spivey asked with slurred speech as Annabel handed him a large shot glass full of sweet liqueur. This was his fourth since Doc began working on him.

“Never you mind that,” Doc ordered firmly. “You just drink that down, you hear.” Spivey did as he was told and drank the stuff down.

“So you were here when this happened?” Cane asked.

“Yes, sir. We were summoned to the aid of one Millard Krill, a cook reaching for a skillet when three of the big iron bastards fell on his head. We finished with him and were just behind Spivey and Boothe when Espinoza spun around and shot poor Spivey. Happened mighty fast; just when that mining blast went off.”

“That’s why I didn’t hear it,” Cane thought analytically. The acoustics in the valley where Bisbee was built carried the bark of gunfire from one end of town to the other— and Cane and his deputies were typically on the move any time it’s heard.

“That damn ringy Mexican is one mean sonofabitch,” Doc said as he wiped his blood-stained hands with his handkerchief. “I

didn’t like him before and he is sure as hell not on my warm side now. What are you planning on doing about it, my friend?”

“Well, Doc, I had Dan an’ David round up Talkin’ Joe an’ Jeff, an’ they’re s’possed to meet me outside the Savoy.”

“Marshal, you have my blessing to gun him down for the mangy cur he is.”

“Much obliged, Doc. So what are you gonna do with Len?”

“I reckon I’m going to try something I’ve never done before. Annabel, my sweet petunia, pour me a glass of that liqueur will you and give Mr. Spivey two more good shots. Care for one, marshal?”

“No thank yeh, very kindly, Doc. A little too early in the morning for me.”

“We’ll just have to cut that .36 slug out from underneath.” Doc and Cane looked down at Spivey as he drank down two more shots of liqueur.

Annabel handed Doc his shot glass and Doc smelled it, took a ginger sip, and then threw it back quickly. He licked his lips and smacked his tongue. He handed the glass back to Annabel. “Young man,” he said to Spivey, “better bite down on that napkin again ‘cause this is going to hurt like a Sonora son-of-a-bitch.”

* * *

Dan Tanner, David Boothe, Talkin’ Joe Hardy, Jeff Skinner and Sandy O’Sullivan stood in the street just outside of the Savoy Saloon. Jonas Cane walked down the street from Emma’s Home Cooking.

“Sandy, what in the Sam Hill are you doing here?”

The six-foot-ten-inch Irish goliath stepped forward with a shotgun in hand. His face wrinkled with genuine concern. “Marshal,” Sandy said softly with his lilting brogue and rolling Rs, which dripped from his tongue like warm butter on a hot

biscuit, “the lads told me that yeer planning to face Wild Juan. Yeer me friend and I want ta be here fer yeh.”

“Sandy, you’re a good friend, indeed; but can I talk you out of it?”

“Nay, marshal. We’ll have none of it ‘cause here I stand— wid yeh, an’ wid da lads too.”

“Then we might as well make it official. Raise your right hand.”

O’Sullivan raised the hand that wasn’t cradling his Parker double-barrel 12 gauge.

“You’re right hand, Sandy.”

“Ooh, soory,” said O’Sullivan, switching his shotgun to his left hand through the muffled chuckles of Cane’s deputies. He quickly shot his right hand into the air.

“Not quite so high, Sandy. You’re not in a schoolhouse.” His comrades were roaring with laughter now. “Easy, boys,” Cane said with a darting glance while holding back a smile himself.

O’Sullivan looked at his raised right arm and carefully lowered his huge mitt until he was satisfied with its position. He nodded at his accomplishment and with a proud smile, he nodded to the marshal.

“Okay,” Cane nodded back to O’Sullivan. “Do you, Sandy O’Sullivan, swear to uphold the laws of the town of Bisbee and support, protect and defend the citizens of the Arizona Territory, so help you God.”

“Aye, marshal. I doooh.”

“Alright, boys—”

“Excuse me, marshal,” O’Sullivan interrupted.

“You don’t have to raise your hand, Sandy.”

O’Sullivan lowered his hand and shifted his shotgun from his left hand to his right. “Marshal, would yeh have a badge fer

me?”

“You were swore in before witnesses, son; that’s what matters.”

“But it don’t seem… well… official. It jist… it don’t seem right.”

Cane looked at O’Sullivan for a full thirty seconds. “Your right, son. It wouldn’t be right.” Cane turned to Boothe. “David, will you run in to Emma’s and get Len’s badge. Len won’t be needin’ it for a spell.”

“That okay with you?” Cane asked O’Sullivan.

“Shaa!” O’Sullivan beamed, as proud as he could be.

* * *

Thick foreboding.

When the Bisbee peace officers entered the Savoy Saloon, it was as if they walked right through a rip in the fabric of space-time, which separated this world from the unseen realm of the evil dead. Although it was morning in Bisbee, and though it was lit in the saloon, the atmosphere was a deep sea of impending doom.

The marshal and his deputies entered a scene that could have been, or should have been, written for Dante’s Inferno. It wasn’t the heat of an eternal fire that filled the room, however; it was a chill that penetrated the core of one’s soul and marrow of one’s bones. “The Jenny Lind Polka” played merrily from the piano in the back of the saloon while the bawdiness of the crowd rose like an acrid stench that affected one’s whole body.

Jonas Cane was unaffected by the chill and the stench and he strolled casually toward the table where Wild Juan sat. He caught a glimpse of Palmer L. Jackson leaning against the end of the bar with a mug of draft in his hand.

Cane’s deputies had their weapons drawn. The men with rifles took careful aim at the Sonora outlaw, center mass. Dan Tanner covered the marshal’s right flank with his Smith &

Wesson Model 3 drawn. Next to him was Boothe, who trained his Spencer .50 caliber carbine on Espinoza’s heart. Just behind Cane to his left was Jeff Skinner with his Winchester Model 1873 repeating rifle, also aimed at Wild Juan. O’Sullivan stood to Skinner’s left. The Parker in O’Sullivan’s hands looked like a short broomstick in his massive arms, which was trained on Espinosa but ready to disburse the crowd if need be. Finally, Talkin’ Joe Hardy covered the marshal’s left flank with his pistol drawn. Talkin’ Joe also carried a Smith & Wesson Model 3.

Wild Juan sat at the table, glaring at Cane. You might say he looked mean, but there was something else about Espinoza’s look. It was not just his face. His entire look had something— something not easy to describe. Cane saw this look before, on a fugitive he was tracking years ago when he was a Texas Ranger. There was something wrong with Wild Juan’s appearance; something more than just irritating to the eye, something so displeasing and loathsome that it was downright detestable. It was a look that would send chills up and down the average citizen’s spine were he to chance across this man unawares. To suggest his look was evil or insidious would not do by the farthest stretch of the words. His aura projected an image of grotesque deformity, yet, there was nothing physically apparent on his face or in his body; because, by physical appearance, he was a handsome, well groomed man.

All at once, the music stopped and every eye was focused upon Cane, his deputies and Wild Juan. With the music, gaiety and banter squelched, the stench took on a whole new personality. It was as if the smell could be heard… like the thunderous beat of a passionate heart; and that it could be felt… like the rhythmic rise and fall of a chest filling with air and deflating, the whole room expanding and contracting with every breath.

“I understand that you’re looking for me,” Cane finally said.

“Si,” Juan answered and two blowflies flew from his mouth. The sound of that one spoken syllable escaped from his mouth with a lilt as smooth as silk and slick as oil, yet when its chord struck the ear it was rough and cutting and jolted the heart.

“An’ you aim to kill me.”

“Si,” Juan nodded as Jackson approached the table and stood behind Espinoza’s chair.

Jackson smiled sardonically, yet his expression never revealed that he was baffled as to why he could not manipulate Jonas Cane as he could others. “Juan and I have an understanding and we don’t want to see any blood spilled in this sacred place. Isn’t that right, Juan?”

“Si,” said Juan nodding once slowly and carefully.

Cane looked at both of them, He refused to show it in his face whatsoever, but he was perplexed as to why he could not anticipate the words or actions of Palmer L. Jackson. “And that means?” Cane asked.

“It means, marshal, that you and Juan must duel outside,” said Jackson.

“I’m not here to kill ‘im. I’m here to arrest ‘im,” Cane said calmly.

“For what?” Wild Juan objected.

“For shooting a sworn officer of the court in the town of Bisbee. That, amigo, will get you twenty years, maybe more.”

“If d’jou want me, marchal, d’jou are jest going to hab to take me in da street, porque, I’m not going peaceful,” Wild Juan said defiantly.

Cane nodded to Wild Juan and then said over his shoulder, “Keep an eye on him, boys.” Cane’s deputies voiced their compliance.

Cane turned around and walked out of the saloon while his deputies backed out with their weapons still trained on Wild Juan. It spooked the deputies considerably to see Wild Juan stand up and the entire crowd in the saloon pressing together and oozing forward in what seemed a single, fluid motion toward the doors, all following behind the Sonora bandito. Walking around the table, Wild Juan walked toward the saloon

doors, which were still swinging from Sandy O’Sullian backing through, the last deputy out.

Stepping out of the saloon and on to the street, Wild Juan walked straight up to Cane and stood a little less than six feet away from the Bisbee lawman. The crowd filed out of the Savoy Saloon in an orchestrated throng. There was no pushing or shoving; no sudden movements. Once everyone was out of the saloon, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, with those on the left moving to one side of the street, and those on the right, moving to the other side of the street; with Cane, Wild Juan, and Cane’s deputies standing in the middle.

Finally, Palmer L. Jackson emerged through the bat wing doors of his saloon. He stepped to the side, which would have been to Cane’s left as the Bisbee lawman faced Wild Juan.

“Jackson, is there anyone else in the saloon?” Cane asked. “I wouldn’t want anyone to come out and get hit by some stray gunfire if my deputies start blasting away.”

“Not a soul, marshal,” Jackson smiled sardonically. “You’re all clear to blast away as you put it.”

“I’m taking you in, Juan,” Cane said coolly.

“D’jou’re going to hab to keell me, marchal. D’jou keell’d Little Bob.”

“No. You killed Little Bob. Until meeting you, Little Bob never would have robbed that bank in Tucson.”

While Espinoza was incarcerated at the territorial prison in Yuma, Little Bob Kellog took it upon himself to rob the First Tucson Bank while Cane just happened to be in town, transporting a prisoner who was extradited from Bisbee. With a saddle bag of money over Little Bob’s shoulder, and his Schofield revolver drawn but hanging to his side, Cane called out to him while standing forty feet from him. Little Bob turned to the sound of Cane’s voice and just as Bob was raising his pistol, Cane drew and shot him between the eyes.

Sheriff Johnny Behan stepped out into the street after a tryst with a Tucson prostitute just in time to see the whole thing. He

was flabbergasted at the speed with which Cane drew and fired. Behan told Frank Stilwell and Ike Clanton later, “I never even heard of anything like that before. Cane just stood there, pretty as you please an’ cold as ice. I was only ten feet away from Cane, and before I could even react to skin my pistol, Cane already shot him down.”

“You do know,” Cane continued, “if you happen to gun me down, my deputies will fill you full of so much lead that you’ll need four extra poll bearers to carry you up to Boot Hill.”

A tear emerged from the corner of Wild Juan’s left eye. Espinoza screamed at Cane, “I loved Little Bob, you fuckeeng chit!” Yet, instead of the tear streaming down his face, it wiggled. It wasn’t a tear at all, but instead, a fly larva. It wriggled and fell to the ground and another maggot emerged from the corner of his eye. Wild Juan glared at Cane with a look of hatred mined from the deepest shaft in the pit of hell. Espinoza didn’t blink at all. He laughed at Cane with a deep, guttural, insidious and other-worldly laugh as he kept his sardonic gaze upon the marshal. Wild Juan’s knees buckled to draw his dos pistolas, two Navy Colts.

Cane dispatched the criminal in the blink of an eye. He drew and shot the Mexican desperado in the throat, which brought an abrupt stop to Wild Juan’s evil laughter. The slug entered just below Juan’s thyroid cartilage and passed upward through his neck and into his brain.

As the blood seeped from the hole in his neck and began to emerge from the corners of his mouth, Espinoza stood for five seconds. His hands still on his pistols, the reflex from the last command his brain sent caused him to draw his pistols. The guns fell from his hands as they emerged from his holsters. Wild Juan wasn’t wild anymore. He dropped straight down to his knees, his upper body still upright. The muscle control and motor signals to his neck were beginning to cease and his head flopped to the right, and then to the left. Then…

BOOM!

A mining blast rocked the landscape in the distance, which was coincident with Espinoza’s head exploding.

Still upright while on his knees, Espinoza’s head exploded. Blood, fragments of his skull, and pieces of his brain flew in every direction. One of Espinoza’s eyeballs landed on the brim of Cane’s “Boss of the Plains” Stetson.

Now, a head exploding in the middle of a crowd of onlookers could affect such a crowd in many ways. Perhaps it was the eyeball stuck to the marshal’s hat; or maybe it was the combination of blood and the strange green and yellow custard-like stuff oozing from what was left of Espinoza’s neck; nevertheless, it started a chain reaction of retching that had not been seen in the Arizona Territory before that day, neither in the days that followed.

It began with Gladys Dowd, the pretty young saloon girl Jed Tyson was flirting with earlier. She attempted to ward off the stirring in her belly and the rising in her throat, but her efforts were futile. From her mouth came chunks of bread mixed with porridge, putrid from the bile in her stomach. The smell of rotten eggs, old, wet onions, and horse droppings were perfume in comparison.

That rank smell set Jed Tyson off. He stood between Gladys and another prostitute named Alice. In a gallant, yet stupid effort to keep his insides from spilling outside via his talking cavity, his right hand shot up to his mouth and he pressed his fingers hard against his lips. Not realizing the force behind the blow of bile and undigested consumables, the vomit squirted out the unclenched corners of his mouth, spraying all over Gladys and Alice. That incident set another five people off to puke; and the rest, as they say, was history. When it was all said and done, seventy-five percent of the crowd had thrown up on the street of Brewery Gulch, leaving a mess that would stink until the next autumn rain. Even two of Cane’s deputies, David Boothe and Jeff Skinner, tossed their cookies.

The rumble started immediately after the explosion. It began as a low gurgling noise emanating from Espinoza’s neck as soon as his head exploded and it increased in volume until it came. No one really noticed the remains of Wild Juan’s body vibrating when the vomit-fest erupted, but it came nonetheless. Halfway through the disgusting ritual of the Technicolor yawn striking so many of the onlookers, the

rumble from Espinoza’s neck culminated in a mighty roar that sent a blast of blowflies up from the Mexican’s vibrating body. The flies emerged in a rushing stream like waves of black velvet and the blackness of their winging spread out some one hundred feet above their heads, filling the sky and casting a dark shadow upon everyone in the Gulch.

To say that the scene was horrible would suggest that there might be something with which this phenomenon could be compared— compared with something else of another horrifying nature— but it could not. This stood so uniquely frightful that some of those who escaped vomiting, as well as many of those who did not escape, quaked with fear. A few onlookers fainted at the sight, falling right where they were; some landing in pools of vomit; while others fainted and fell upon the dust of the street, only to be retched upon by someone else in this most disgusting manifestation of evil.

When the last soul had heaved his breakfast, the last of the blowflies had emerged like a tail at the end of the swarm. Espinoza’s body stopped vibrating with the departure of the last blowflies, and the headless corpse fell to the ground. The thick darkness that rose in a rush and a roar of flying pests formed a cloud of flies that did not completely darken the entire town (for it was still morning and the sun rising in the east gave enough light in order to see), but instead moved together like a wave of the sea, composing an image that looked like a huge dragon.

Of those who had not fainted or passed out or died (there was only one death on the street at that point— Wild Juan Espinoza), every head was turned skyward and every eye beheld the apparition presented by the blowflies.

Palmer L. Jackson looked up with a smile of pure yet evil delight, and whispered to himself, “Beelzebub.” And with the closing of Jackson’s mouth from the last syllable he had spoken in worshipful reverence, the flies disbursed. They flew away with such speed that if you blinked, you would swear that they just disappeared. Only two people saw the flies disburse: Palmer L. Jackson and Jonas Cane.

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Chapter 4

What a day!

He took off his Johnny B and looked at the brim, which was still filthy in spots where Espinoza’s eyeball and other tiny exploded head pieces had landed and splattered. Reckon I’ll have to get me a new hat. Never in all his born days would Cane ever have guessed that he would witness a man’s head explode before his very eyes. He received a little comfort, however, when his memory conjured up the voice of his old Texas Ranger mentor, “San Antone Sam” Neville:

“You listen to me, son,” Sam told him on more than one occasion. “You just shake it off as if it never happened.”

“But I can’t shake it off, Sam,” Cane complained. “I saw it with my own two eyes and I know what I saw.”

“Who’re ya gonna believe, me or your own two eyes?”

Cane smiled at that. He shook it off but he still felt tired all over. It was indeed a long day. Doc Miller and Dan Tanner got Wild Juan’s body and remains taken care of, getting his body to the undertaker and his belongings recorded for the court to decide how it would be handled.

In the dim lighting, he looked around at the layout of the room. He had lived in the same room in the Bisbee Hotel since Judge DeWitt Bisbee appointed him as town marshal in 1880. He had mixed feelings about the room, but it was not about the room itself. He would have had those feelings about any room he lived in. The simple diggings of his current abode should have been a respite and comfort to him— yet, because of the dreams he has had in the past, especially those during the times of the Roeter family murders at the Bar Double R, he nearly considered this room accursed. Shake it off.

The marshal, once again, shook those thoughts away and set his hat on the top of his coat rack in the corner of the room. He took off his coat and hung it up on the bentwood hook at the top of the rack, and rolling up his sleeves, he walked to the cherry wood stand that stood in front of the south wall. Cane

poured water from the pitcher into the porcelain basin and splashed water on his face. Jonas Cane looked at the dull mirror hanging on the wall. He looked like he felt— perhaps even looking a little older than he imagined himself. He grabbed the small towel from the bar on the side of the stand and patted his face dry.

Cane sat down on the Queen Anne chair in the corner of the room. He jumped up and drew his Colt when he heard the squeaky hinge of the wardrobe in his room. Approaching the wardrobe with his Peacemaker in his hand, he watched as the left side door to the huge oak cabinet slowly opened on its own. The sound was difficult to discern at first; no louder than a child’s whisper. Cane slowly leaned forward to try to hear the sound, that is, if it would happen again.

The raspy voice uttered again but Cane still could not make it out. I know that voice, Cane thought. The marshal, with pistol at the ready, walked carefully and cautiously toward the open wardrobe. He was not frightened. He’s seen much in his life, as a sniper for the Union Army; as a Texas Ranger covering the Pecos; and as a U.S. Marshal for the Arizona Territory. Hell, even on a day like this when he witnessed a man’s head explode and millions, perhaps billions, of blowflies emerged from the corpse and scatter.

By the time Cane stood directly in front of the wardrobe, he could not hear a thing. He looked closely at some of his coats and suits hanging in the wooden closet. He opened the door on the right side and then poked around at some of his suits. He didn’t have many. Nothing in here but my clothes.

Cane turned around and the hairs on his neck stood straight out. Blood spattered arms bolted out from the wardrobe and grabbed the marshal and spun him around until Jonas Cane was face to face with the bloodied and battered face of a dead man, Charlie Roeter. Cane struggled to get away from Charlie’s grip, pulling back with all his might. The smell of violent death reeked in Cane’s nostrils.

“Marshal Cane,” Charlie whispered to him and immediately disappeared.

The force that held Cane was gone and now he struggled to keep his balance. He fell backward and hit his head on the bed post. Marshal Cane was out cold.

* * *

Since purchasing the Savoy, Palmer L. Jackson lived in the main suite on the fourth floor. It was a spacious, elegant room. A tapestry of a British fox hunt hung on the wall opposite the bed. The two large windows that overlooked the main street of Brewery Gulch were covered with thick, red velvet curtains, bordered with gold and decorated with gold and purple fringe.

Jackson had one lamp lit at the far side of the room. He sat naked in an upholstered button-back chair in the corner of the room directly diagonal from where the hurricane lamp provided light. He stared at the lamp for several minutes and closed his eyes.

The lamp began to flicker and it got darker in the room as a large swarm of blowflies danced around the light. The flies teased and taunted the light, but they were helpless against the light.

From behind the swarm, a figure could be seen by the faint glow of the lamp’s light that wasn’t covered by the swarm of blowflies. The tang of death and decaying flesh filled the atmosphere of the room. Then the figure emerged.

Jackson stood up. His mouth and throat were parched and his heart pounded harder and faster. A rush of warmth filled his loins. He stepped toward the figure and smiled when he saw the flesh of a woman’s throat ripped away. She was naked and in the low light he could just make out the bullwhip marks all over her body. She looked just as he remembered her on that late spring day when he first saw her. Maggots wriggled from her ears, nose and mouth. It was Abigail Roeter. Jackson had fallen in love with her the day he had seen her dead, brutalized body at the Bar Double R.

They met in the middle of the room.

They embraced and Jackson gave this sweet love of his, this grotesque specter of Abigail Roeter, a deep, passionate kiss.

* * *

The lamp was quite dim but still lit when Cane came to. His head ached. That was no surprise. He woke often with headaches. Some were severe, some not so bad. This one was caused by a knot on the back of his head that was as big as Chicago and as high as Denver.

The images of Palmer L. Jackson and Abigail Roeter were still in the marshal’s mind and they sickened him. This gift certainly was a blessing and a curse. He recognized that there was certainly more to Jackson than meets the eye, and therefore, could prepare— a blessing. Nevertheless, no one should have those kinds of images in their mind— a curse, indeed.

He was still tired— and now, hurting. Cane slowly lifted himself from the floor with the help of the bedpost that inflicted the damage on the back of his head. He sat in the Queen Anne chair in the corner of his room and pulled his boots off. Cane stood up and unbuckled his gun belt; he noticed how light it was. Oh, that’s right. I must have dropped it. In the low light, he caught a glimpse of his Army Colt on the floor at the edge of the bed. He walked to the edge of the bed and just as he picked it up with his right hand, Charlie Roeter’s hand shot out from under the bed and grabbed Cane’s left wrist.

“Help us,” whispered Roeter low and hauntingly.

Cane shot Roeter’s arm and the arm disappeared. All that was there was a hole in the floor. With his gun in hand, he ran out the door, down the carpeted hallway in his stocking feet, ran down the stairway, and into the lobby. There was no one there. Cane ran near the entrance of the lobby below where his room would have been. He looked up and saw the hole made by his .45 slug, the dim light from within the room providing a low glow to spot the bullet’s exit. He looked down at the carpeted floor where the bullet would have entered the carpeted floor. He found it. He ran the big toe of his right foot across the scarred carpet. That could have killed someone.

When the marshal returned to his room, he gave it a quick once over. From a distance he peeked under his bed and saw

nothing. With his pistol still in his hand, he closed the door to his room and sat down in the Queen Anne chair. Cane had no idea what time it was. His head still hurt. He felt like he was just drifting asleep when he heard the taps.

Tap, tap, tap.

It was Charlie Roeter’s arm, tapping his fingernails on the floor from under the bed. Cane thought that it was rather loud for a fingernail tapping. “Charlie, is that you?” Cane asked.

Charlie’s hand tapped on the floor again. Tap, tap, tap. It was louder this time and Jonas Cane heard it again: “Marshal Cane,” was the words of the whispering rasp of Charlie Roeter’s voice.

“Charlie, what do you want with me?” Cane asked. He was pensive and cautious over this whole situation, but he was not frightened.

Finally, there was a huge knock. Bam! Bam! Bam! Charlie Roeter’s hand was gone but his haunting voice left one last reminder: “Marshal Cane.”

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“Marshal Cane?” Vernon Dickey called to him from outside of his door.

Jonas Cane opened his eyes. He was in his bed and under the covers. “Yup, uh, yeah, uh… Vernon, is that you?”

“Yessir, marshal, it is,” Dickey answered.

“Well, let yourself in.”

The sound of the key went into the door, turned, and the door knob turned, followed by Dickey, the owner of the Bisbee Hotel. Cane was pushing himself up from the bed with a pain that felt like his head exploded. He has had these before and the marshal rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands.

“You okay, marshal?” Dickey closed the door behind him and walked to the window.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine Vern. Just had a rough night is all.”

“I’m just going to open your curtains a little. Watch your eyes.”

Cane turned his head away covered his eyes with his left hand until he could adjust to the light.

“You wanted me to make sure you were up and at ‘em early today, so here I am.”

“Much obliged, my friend. By the way, what time is it?”

Dickey pulled his pocket watch from his vest and looked at it. “Just a few minutes past seven,” he said as he returned his time piece to its home base.

“Would you mind handing me my inexpressibles? On the chair.” Marshal, can I ask you a question?

As Dickey went to the chair to fetch Cane’s pants, Cane looked down at the floor to see if there was a bullet hole. There was none.

“Marshal, can I ask you a question?” Dickey said as he handed the lawman his trousers.

“Draw your weapon and fire away,” Cane said as he put on his pants. What in the hell…

“What in the hell— pardon my language— is a… Oktober-, uh, -fest anyway?”

“Heinrich Mueller tried to explain it to me— an’ to be honest, Vernon, I still don’t know. I think it has to do with drinking beer or somethin’.” We’re full up…

“We’re full up here. I’ve had to turn folks away last night. One couple come all the way from St. Louis. Been havin’ to send folks to the Gulch or Chinatown.”

“Well it’s only a couple of weeks and then we’ll have done with it.” But I hear tell…

“But I hear tell that in Bah-varia Europe, they been doin’ this

every year for some seventy years.”

“I reckon we’ll have to see how it goes this year first.”

“Awrighty, then. Yeh need anything else? Want me to send Susannah up with some breakfast?”

“No, Vern. Millie Kahler’ll be sending some biscuits and bacon over to the office. Much obliged though.”

“You know she’s sweet on you,” Dickey said with an amused smile. He looked at Cane as the marshal finished tucking in his shirt and buttoning his trousers.

“Huh?” He actually missed what he said… and didn’t feel his words before Dickey said them. That’s odd.

“I said my daughter’s sweet on you.”

“Oh,” Cane said pulling up his suspenders. “Oh— sure, I know that,” he said as he stepped over to the Queen Anne chair. He sat down and grabbed a boot. “But I ain’t young no more, Vern…” He slipped his first boot on with a grunt. He got the second one and continued, “She’s a young trat, an’ no mistake.” He stood up.

“She is a real purty girl at that.”

“Reckon she took after her ma and not her pa, thank God,” Cane winked at Dickey.

“Her ma was true blue and a beautiful woman; God rest her soul.”

“Susannah could do much better ‘n me, my friend.”

“She could do a whole lot worse, constable…. What? Don’t look at me that way. Okay, okay, I’m leavin’. Good morning, marshal.”

“Mornin’ to you, Mr. Dickey. Thanks again."

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Chapter 5

It was not yet eight in the morning and Bisbee was already busy and buzzing. Oktoberfest in Brewery Gulch had brought folks in from as far as Montreal, Canada.

Marshal Cane stepped out of the hotel. He walked down the boardwalk and got as far as the Assay Office when he ran into Homer Needles.

“Ma-ma-ma-mornin’, ma-marshal,” Needles stuttered a greeting.

“Homer,” Cane nodded. “What’re you doin’ out an’ about so early?”

“Tha-tha-th-th-they ge-ge-got all kinda ta-ta-ta-ta-to-dooo happenin’s de-de-de-down at tha-tha-th-the Ge-ge-ge-Guuulch,” said Homer, pointing down Main Street toward Brewery Gulch. Cane could have finished his sentence and often did. Every once in a while he found amusement in just letting the poor bastard talk.

They both looked down Main Street in the direction Needles pointed. A few buggies and buckboards were already transporting people to Brewery Gulch. Others were walking in that direction.

“Yup, a might busy morning at that,” said the marshal.

“Ah-Ah-Ahhh—”

“Oktoberfest,” Cane interjected, finishing the attempt made at the word.

Needles nodded. “Wah-wah-we-well ah-ah-I—”

“—Gotta go?”

Needles nodded again.

“Keep your head about your shoulders,” Cane smiled.

Needles smiled with a nod, gestured goodbye with a casual

salute, and walked down the street in the direction of the Gulch.

Cane could hear the footsteps on the boardwalk but could not feel who it was. That’s odd.

When he turned around, he saw Palmer L. Jackson walking toward him. He was dressed in a brown suit and a matching derby. Before he could even think about it, these words fell from his mouth: “We don’t take to gadabouts in Bisbee. So you can just high tail it back to Tombstone.” Didn’t I dream this?

“Haven’t you heard, marshal?” Jackson replied. “I don’t ride with Clanton or McLaury anymore. I’ve relocated to Bisbee and I’ve hung up my leggins.”

“The dickens you say.”

“True as a tee-totaller. I purchased a place in Brewery Gulch last week.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It is indeed.” Jackson produced the deed and handed it to Cane.

Cane looked it over carefully, yet confused. I did dream this. Last night! “So you bought the Savoy Hotel from Heinrich Mueller.” He’s up to something. “Looks legal.” He handed the deed back to Jackson.

“Oh, it is, marshal. It is,” smiled Jackson, returning the deed to his breast pocket.

“You can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll be checkin’ it out.”

Jackson smiled innocently.

“If it’s not square, you’ll be seeing me later.”

“You have a reputation as a constable that cares about his community, marshal. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m glad I’m settling down here.”

Cane turned from Jackson and walked toward his office.

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Chapter 6

When Cane was in his office, the conversation went exactly as it had in his dream. The only difference was that, instead of being so bothered about Jackson purchasing the Savoy, he was preoccupied that he had dreamt this the night before, and that there must have been a reason for such a revelatory dream.

Poor, forgetful David Boothe ended the conversation in the marshal’s office with his winded announcement that Wild Juan was looking to kill Cane, just as he had dreamt it.

At Emma’s Home Cooking, Doc Miller was preparing to perform field surgery on Len Spivey right there at the tent entrance; once more, just as it was in his dream.

Just as it was in the dream, on the street in front of the Savoy Saloon, O’Sullivan was sworn in as a deputy and backed up the marshal and his deputies, both inside the saloon and outside.

The dream must have had a significant meaning. Cane was privy to a host of visions and images that he did not take part in: conversations between Jackson and Espinoza, and other likewise instances.

Furthermore, the reality of the showdown on the street in front of the Savoy Saloon was slightly different than what Cane lived out in his dream.

* * *

Wild Juan stood just less than six feet away from Cane. Cane’s deputies stood behind him, just as it was in the dream. The entire crowd of those making merry in the saloon filled the street on either side of Cane, Espinoza and Cane’s deputies. Palmer L. Jackson emerged casually from the saloon’s

swinging doors.

“Jackson, is there anyone else in the saloon?” Cane asked. “I wouldn’t want anyone to come out and get hit by some stray gunfire if my deputies start blasting away.”

“Not a soul, marshal. You’re all clear to blast away as you put it.”

“I’m taking you in, Juan.”

“D’jou’re going to hab to keell me, marchal. D’jou keell’d Little Bob.”

“No. You killed Little Bob. Until meeting you, Little Bob never would have robbed that bank in Tucson. You do know, if you happen to gun me down, my deputies will fill you full of so much lead that you’ll need four extra poll bearers to carry you up to Boot Hill.”

An actual tear formed in Espinoza’s eye. From the first came more and tears stained his brown cheeks. “I loved Little Bob, you fuckeeng chit!” Suddenly, Wild Juan’s knees buckled to draw his two Navy Colts. He had almost fully drawn his right side pistol when…

Cane drew and fired two shots so quickly that is was nearly a blur. Wild Juan dropped to his left knee and fell over with a wound in his left leg and his right elbow. The shot to Wild Juan’s thigh pulled the bandito off balance and felled him, while the second shot caught the inside of the top of his right forearm, the .45 slug exiting the other side of his arm and shattering the bones of his elbow. On his way down, Espinoza dropped the Colt he held in his right hand as the bullet severed the nerve and a massive wave of body lightning shot through his chest, past his cojones, and down to his toes, while at the same time it also went through his arm and danced at the end of his fingertips.

The marshal moved forward quickly and kicked Espinoza’s pistol away. Espinoza’s hatred could be seen in his eyes and, though weak, he tried to reach with his left hand the pistol on that side. Before Wild Juan could get a good grip on his Colt, Cane reached down with his empty hand, grabbed the

Mexican’s left index finger and bent in backwards until it snapped. The marshal relieved him of the holstered Colt.

“Here you go, Dan,” Cane said to his deputy, who had just holstered his Model 3 and stepped forward. Cane tossed the weapon to Dan. “Joe, get his other pistol, will yeh?”

Talkin’ Joe holstered his pistol and picked up Wild Juan’s other Colt.

Doc Miller and Annabel made their way through the crowd. Having already received help to get Spivey into his buckboard, he stayed close in case the marshal or his men needed him.

Cane looked down at Wild Juan and shook his head. “I told you I was takin’ you in. I meant it.”

Palmer L. Jackson stared at Jonas Cane with a smile of pure yet evil delight, and whispered to himself, “Beelzebub.”

Cane looked up and over to Jackson. He was not quite sure if he heard his whisper, or if he was merely remembering the dream. He tried to shake it off.

Although the gates of hell were opened the night the Roeter family and ranch hands were butchered at the Bar Double R, Cane believed that it was this very day that marked the habitation of the spawns of hell in Bisbee. The evil unleashed at the Roeter Ranch was a precursor to the evil that now filled the town…

…and this was only the beginning.

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