"The Death of Second-Story Sammy"
"The Death of Second-Story Sammy"
10/12-10/13/1885
I.
The cold wind blowing in from the prairie did not chill Tom Pinto as much as all the staring from the townspeople. On his chestnut horse, the aging gunfighter rode glumly down the main street of Vista Soledad and felt every eye on him. A two-horse wagon slowed almost to a halt as he went by. Curtains in windows were pulled aside. In front of the hardware store, two men arguing about some transaction froze silent until he had passed. More than one hand lowered to be near a holster. A door slammed as a young woman yanked her child inside.
He should have been hardened to this reception. For twenty years, Tom Pinto had been an outlaw, with wanted posters and a price on his head that went up frequently. In his late fifties, Pinto looked older because of his hard life and long exposure to the elements. There was as much grey as blond in his hair now, and deep furrows ran down both cheeks. He was tall, an inch or so over six feet, and lanky with long arms and legs. His boots and Levis and work shirt were unremarkable. It was the white vest with black spots that stood out. This had been made from the hide of a pinto pony that had belonged to the peacemaker Paiute chief Osawayatotha.
This vest had given him the handle by which he was known. Even the sheriffs and bounty hunters who sought him never knew his real name. Although he could have made himself less recognizable by packing that vest away, he wore it in sheer defiance and contrariness. Holstered on a well-worn gunbelt was a single-action .44, tied to his thigh so its butt hung exactly where his fingers could grasp it when his arms were lowered. The gun had its own campfire legends. Pinto had heard some of the tall tales and hadn't known whether to laugh or cry at the exaggerations.
Vista Soledad was a nice-looking town, with most of the buildings seemingly of very recent construction. Plenty of specialized stores, a school and a church at one end, a livery stable at the other. Pinto reined his horse in to the hitching post in front of a hotel with the name MAJESTIC painted in ornate script over the railed porch. The wanderer tied the horse to that post where a watering trough was within reach.
Close enough to be overheard, three men huddled on the far side of that porch. One muttered, "How long do you figger he's been around these parts? Mebbe he hasn't shown hisself until today."
"That would explain Second-Story Sammy right neatly," said another.
Moving up the five steps to the front door, Pinto gave the men a hard stare without realizing it. He turned toward them, intending only to ask what they meant, but they shrank back. One swung a leg over the railing and dropped down to the alley between the hotel and next building, breaking into a run.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! You can see I ain't armed," cried one of the men.
"Settle down, mister," Pinto called over. I'm not here to stir up trouble."
From within the open door, a woman's voice said, "It IS him! It's Tom Pinto, I tell you." The aging cowboy exhaled wearily.
With both the front door and two windows open, the lobby was not stuffy but cool and inviting. Large potted plants sat between comfortable armchairs, stairs led up to the next floor, a painting of a ship in a storm filled most of one walls. Behind the registration desk, one elderly woman with white hair in a bun clutched at the arm of another and stared with terrified eyes as he entered.
Pinto did not wear a Stetson but a wide-brimmed slouch hat and he had taken it off when coming inside. He held it in his left hand, realized that he did this to keep his gunhand free but was reluctant to break a habit that had saved his life more than once.
"Afternoon, ladies," he said, moving over to the desk. He plucked a few dollar bills from the side pocket of his vest and held them in sight. "I would be grateful for a real bed and a hot bath, if such are available."
"No, no, we are full up. We have no rooms," the taller of the women was quick to say.
Pinto waited a long moment without replying. His irritation at this reception was growing harsher and he could feel his temper start to flare. Finally he trusted himself to speak. "Ma'am, my money is as good as anyone else's. You have my word all I want is rest and food for me and for my hoss outside."
The second woman, shorter and heavier than the one who seemed to be in charge, cleared her throat. "I believe Christian charity urges us to give every person a fair chance, Madeleine. The back room on the second floor was vacated last night when that trapper left without settling his tab."
"Very well. Sir, this is my sister Adelaide. I am Madeleine Tulhill, this hotel is our ongoing concern. Our rates are one dollar a day for a room. I am saddened that I must mention no female guests are allowed as we are strong believers in decency. Three meals are available for seventy-five cents, whether one appears at night. That is to cover our expense for preparing the food."
"All this suits me right down to the ground," said the outlaw.
It was settled. Pinto paid for three days in advance, was informed of meal times and laundry service and signed the register under the baleful eye of the older woman. "I'll bring my saddle bags in presently," he said. "Would the stable down the street board my hoss, you think?"
"Absolutely. Little Efrem loves all animals but especially horses." The shorter woman seemed to be warming up to this notorious outlaw. "I'm sure your cayuse will be well tended, Mr Pinto."
"I would be much obliged," he said. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement in the open front door. Automatically, his gloved hand dropped to rest on the butt of his Colt. A small crowd was gathering out on the porch.
II.
Might as well get this over with, he thought. What wouldn't he give to be anonymous, to have his past forgotten, to be just a face in the crowd. But a man had to play the cards he dealt even if it was a losing hand.
Over a dozen men were waiting by the door, grumbling and muttering to each other. Only three were packing pistols, as the frontier was being tamed and settling down. He remembered gold boom towns and border towns where no one went unarmed if they wanted to see. Seeing the grim expression on Pinto's face, the crowd parted to give him an opening and one or two on the fringe quietly slipped off.
Standing right in the outlaw's path was a man still in his early twenties, wearing a flamboyant red and gold silk shirt that no working cowboy would have ever owned. His flat-brimmed hat had Navajo beading, his boots were tooled with intricate swirls and he wore two separate gunbelts, one for the right hand and one for the left. As soon as he saw the smirk, Tom Pinto fought hard to keep from backhanding him right across that smug face.
The rest of the crowd watched tensely, barely breathing, no one wanting to call out special attention to himself. Keeping his tone civil with great effort, Pinto said, "It appears there is something you wish to say to me."
"You reckon rightly. We citizens of Vista Soledad want to know what your business is in our little town."
"I have no business as such," Pinto replied. "I'm passing through on my way toward Mexico. I've paid for a few days at this establishment and then I will be moving on." The faintest tinge of mockery slipped into his voice. "Rest assured, you have nothing to be nervous about."
"Nervous? Me? Suh, the sun never rose on a day that saw Josiah Netherwood nervous."
"I take that as a reassurance," Pinto said. He moved past the man, not quite brushing up against him, and started unstrapping his saddlebags. Pinto has only owned the chestnut horse for a month but he had become fond of the gentle and cooperative steed.
Leaving the saddle and reins for the moment, the wanderer turned back toward the front door of the MAJESTIC, only to find Netherwood blocking his way. "That's not a friendly gesture to a tired dusty wayfarer," Pinto said quietly.
"Tired dusty wayfarers don't carry a price on their heads, suh. Five thousand dollars isn't chicken feed."
"No one is gonna haul my carcass all the way to Texas to claim that blood money," Pinto said. "I am not wanted in this territory. I intend to keep that arrangement."
Josiah Netherwood grinned in a remarkably annoying way. He was standing with feet well apart, hands hovering down by his guns. "That may not be your choice to make."
"Son..." Pinto began, but there was a long pause before he continued. "You ever sit up at night wonderin' what happens when you die? Never mind the Sunday School stories. It's like before you were born. There is no 'you' at all. If you catch a bullet with yore forehead today, you'll never know anything about it. You'll be gone like a candle what got snuffed out."
Surprisingly, that seemed to defuse Netherwood's confrontational attitude. The tightness in his face eased up. He swung his body sideways to offer passage. "Those are hard words, Tom Pinto."
"Take them to heart. You've got a lot of pretty girls yet to kiss, a lot of sunsets to watch, a lot of card games to win. You can throw it all away in a blink. Anyone of us can lose our future in a blink." And he walked past the challenger into the lobby.
Up on the second floor, he unlocked his room and studied it. Clean fresh linen, a window open so the wind blew lace curtains about, the room was more refined than he had expected. The big double bed, dresser and chairs were in decent shape. Pinto put his saddle bags down and gazed out the window to see men moving away from the porch and down the street. Good.
There was a big pitcher of water in a basin, some towels and a bar of harsh lye soap. Fair enough, he thought as he stripped to the waste. Pinto cleaned himself up as best he could before fetching his spare shirt and socks from the bags. He had five hundred dollars with him, enough to buy a few more items before leaving Vista Soledad. A winter coat was going to be a necessity, he also had wanted some eating utensils to make his meager meals out in the wilderness more congenial.
Suddenly the bed tempted him. he could yank off his boots, stretch out on top of the wool blankets and sleep for days. Maybe hibernate through the winter. No. Take care of your horse first was a rule he always kept. Tom Pinto went back out into the hall and down the staircase, passing a short Mexican man carrying an armful of folded clothing. Outside again, he felt as many eyes fixed on him as before, but the townspeople seemed less horrified and simply curious.
Walking alongside the chestnut toward the livery stable, Pinto slowed as he went past a saloon with a sign hanging from a horizontal post, NEW EDEN. Maybe he would spend some time there. Pinto had sworn off drinking not because he hated it but because he liked it too much. It had led to a few confrontations where death had been the resolution. He wouldn't mind hearing some honky-tonk piano and seeing if there were any local newspapers to read, maybe even see if any of the upstairs girls were bearable. But he was not sanguine about a peaceful stay in this town. That Netherwood boy might not be the only would-be gunslinger looking to build a reputation.
III.
At the dining room table that evening, Pinto heard about Second Story Sammy.
Promptly at six-thirty, the two Tulhill sisters brought in a wheeled cart bearing a steaming hot kettle and several covered baskets. They made their way around the table, each guest holding up his plate and receiving the same share. No seconds were offered. Pinto was one of five men staying at the MAJESTIC who had appeared for dinner; it was mentioned that a sixth guest had not elected to show.
The outlaw was more than satisfied with the meal. Beef stew with carrots, peas and onions, some drop biscuits and a square of warm corn bread. It wasn't fine cuisine but it was all fresh and plentiful. Tom Pinto most nights hunched over a tiny campfire eating boiled beans or flapjacks made with water. When more than two guests had finished, Madeleine brought over an apple pie to dole out generous slices. Finally feeling a warm glow of well-being for the first time in weeks, Tom Pinto decided this had been seventy-five cents well spent.
During the meal, he heard about the town's biggest sensation, three burglaries in two months by Second-Story Sammy. This was the name the people of Vista Soledad had given to an unknown person who had committed three home robberies, considered unusually daring because in each case the lone man robbed had been asleep right in the same room.
"Fella must be right light on his feet," ventured Pinto. "Climbing up the back some house, sneaking in without rousting a soul. I don't calculate a good-sized man with meat on his bones could manage that."
Opposite Pinto sat a stout middle-aged man in a full suit, including brocade vest and string tie with a pin shaped like a eagle. Despite the paunch, he seemed to be brawny enough, his biceps and shoulders hinted at considerable strength. "There are those who cast a suspicious eye on a Cherokee family who work Old Man Lemister's farm. The boys are barefoot more often than not. They are wiry agile little heathens."
Pinto nodded gravely. "These three men who was robbed, they know each other?"
"Only to bid hello in the street. We are not that large a community and newcomers are rare. Mr Pinto, may I ask you to regale us with some of your exploits?"
"I do not believe I can oblige you," Pinto said. "Tales grow in the telling. Best not to take them as much more than yarn spinning."
At the end of the table, a gaunt man in rough work clothes put down his second of the two coffee cups available. "I read one of them dime novels about you, Mr Pinto. A Foster's Nickel Library book. You were depicted stampeding a herd of buffalo through a ranch to scare out some owlhoots who were holding captive girls."
"Wish I had as much imagination as them writers!" scoffed Pinto. "Mebbe I could make a livin' that way."
The well-dressed man extracted a thick brown cigar from his vest. "I believe I will step outside and enjoy this. Anyone care to join me?"
"I would be pleased to do so," Tom Pinto said, pushing back his chair. "I got my own fixins'."
The working man also rose. "I doesn't smoke but I would like some night air. Got an early day tomorrow."
Praising the cooking drew blushes and pleased murmurs from the Tulhill sisters. The three guests went out on the porch, where the well-dressed man lowered himself to a bench while the worker leaned back against the railing and sighed contentedly. The town was quiet enough. Most of the shops had closed at sunset. From down the street came faint echoes of a tinny piano attempting "Camptown Races." That would be from the NEW EDEN.
As he had done in the saddle many times, Tom Pinto got out papers and his tobacco pouch to roll a cigarette not much thicker than a pin. From the inner pocket of his vest, he dug out a wooden match to scratch into life with his thumbnail. "I don't allow myself more than one of these a day," he announced. "Too many times I have to go without."
"Allow me to introduce myself," said the older man. His greying hair was slicked back with some aromatic pomade. "Ambrose Bricknell, M.D. Surgeon, dentist and veterinary doctor if need be. My office is in the building across the street. I decided to reside here at the MAJESTIC for the convenience. My cooking is abominable."
The two men shook hands amiably and both turned toward the third man. "Woodbridge Sumner, folks call me Woody. I ain't no one notable," he admitted. "Just a migratory soul looking for work. I am a fair hand at carpentry and repairs. Some of the farmers call on me to fix broken furniture and wagon wheels and such. Pray excuse me, gentlemen. I must rise early tomorrow."
After Woody had gone back inside, the outlaw and the doctor chatted in a low-key way. "Your arrival has the town as frantic as a wet chicken," Bricknell said. "They seem to expect you will engage in some showdown on the main street where bullets will fly like hail in a storm."
"Nah. Not me, I'm a peaceful soul who craves nothin' but quiet. I might be stopping by yore office, though. Got me a cut on my foot that don't look right. If'n it is getting infected, better to tend to it early."
"Wise words, my friend! Preventing disease is always prerable to trying to cure it. My nurse opens the door when the town clock strikes nine every morning except Sunday. Well, I bid you good night, sir."
"Same to you, amigo." Left alone in the gloom, Tom Pinto worked over everything he had been told about this so-called Second-Story Sammy. It was none of his business in any way, but he felt compelled to buy chips in every game where innocent folks were being hurt. Pinto was haunted by an eerie spiritual revelation he had survived a few years earlier. He often awoke from dreams in which he once again heard a spectral voice call his name and warn him to change his ways before it was too late.
Pinto had taken that sighting of the riders as a warning he had better heed. Never mentioning it to anyone, he had since tried to be a better man in every way. If only to save himself from that dismal fate.
IV.
After a solid meal and a sound sleep in a real bed, Tom Pinto found the world looking much more pleasant when the sunlight came through his window. He yawned, stretched, scratched his back and got the chamber pot out from under the bed to relieve himself in. Quiet comfort never lasted though. He knew from bitter experience that something would force him to leave this town and hit the unmarked trails again. Something always did.
The crisp clear air lifted his spirits. Pinto checked in on his horse and spent a few minutes reassuring the animal. He would come back later with an apple as a treat. At the general goods store, he purchased two more pairs of cotton socks and a blue chambray shirt, then on impulse picked up a new jackknife, matches and a bag of rough cut tobacco. Pinto was flat busted so much that buying luxury items made him uncomfortable.
The townspeople still watched him the way they'd watch a stray mountain wolf strolling through town but their fascination seemed to hold less fear than the day before. Maybe getting a good look at him had taken some edge off the fearsome reputation. He had been snoring when breakfast had been served at the hotel, so the aroma from a chop house drew him irresistably. Pinto found a fat man with excessively hairy arms at work at the grill. The stained apron and smell of grease didn't bother Pinto, he had survived on ripe meat many times. A plump steak with a boiled potato and lard, no greens, suited him fine.
Back out on the street, he spotted a shingle hanging from a beam protruding out over the wooden walk. AMBROSE Bricknell, MD, DDS. He remembered his foot and decided to have it checked out. A tiny bell tinkled as he opened the door. Behind a desk, a middle-aged Mexican woman with thick gorgeous hair done up on top of her head smiled at him.
"Good morning," he said, taking off his hat out of courtesy. "I told the doc I might be in today, got something I'd like him to take a look at."
As the nurse began to reply, the inner door swung open and Bricknell laughed. "And here you are! It's been less busy than usual, sir. I can see you immediately."
The room beyond was an office, with shelves full of reference books, framed diplomas on the walls and a locked cabinet that presumably held valuable medicines. Aside from the paper-littered desk and three chairs, the other piece of furniture in that room was a chest-high table long enough to accomodate a tall man. This was covered at the moment with a fresh sheet.
"I haven't forgotten what you said, son. Suppose you plant yourself up on the exam table and let's see what you're dealing with."
After a brief inspection, the doctor got a scalpel which he wiped with a clean cloth and then made an incision at the red swollen area on the side of Pinto's foot. He then swabbed it with stinging alcohol and applied a dressing. "That was on its way to developing a nasty infection, Mr Pinto. I would advise you to check it tomorrow and keep it clean if you can."
Pulling his sock and boot back on, the outlaw hopped down. "Much obliged, sir. I'm too accustomed to toughing injuries out."
"Rosalita will settle with you. My fee is three dollars for something minor like this. Do you have any problems..." His sentence was cut off by a man shouting at the top of his lungs in the reception room. "Mercy, that's Curly Red and he sounds drunk again. Wait here, if you will. I can talk him into going home."
As the voices alternated between slurred yelling and calming reassurances, Pinto glanced around the room. Something caught his eye. Most of the volumes on those shelves were matching items from a set. Encyclopedias, textbooks. But tucked away on a shelf were three old tattered books that seemed out of place. Curiosity won out. Tom Pinto leaned over to read the barely legible titles on the ragged spines.
SECRETS OF ALCHEMY REVEALED. LOST WISDOM OF THE ANCIENTS. THE GREAT ART. Pinto raised an eyebrow, not knowing what to think except that the doc had some obscure interests. He knew the word 'Alchemy' but hadn't expected to see it in a modern surgeon's office. For some reason it unsettled him.
The slamming of the street door brought him out of his thoughts. He stepped back toward the table as Bricknell returned.
"That man is impossible," the doctor sputtered. "I swear his liver must look like a piece of charcoal by now. Anyway. Give me a second, Mr Pinto. Where's my key, ah here we go." From the cabinet, he took a blue glass bottle and tapped out three white pills into a folded piece of paper which he handed to the cowboy.
"I want you to take one each night before retiring. Drink a good amount of water with them. I do not believe you have any cause for concern, but since you say you are out alone on the prairie most of the time, prudence is well advised."
"I thank you kindly, doc," Pinto said. "I expect to be residing at the MAJESTIC for another two, three days. No doubt we will meet at the dining table."
Placing a hand on the taller man's shoulder, Bricknell ushered him out, through the reception room and toward the street. "No doubt. I look forward to some enlightening conversation. Now I must ask you to excuse, a regular patient will be here shortly."
Nodding politely to the nurse Rosalita, Pinto walked out into the street. This time, he hardly noticed the faces at windows, eyes following him. He was straining his memory for anything about Alchemy. It was some silly old nonsense from long ago, people trying to turn lead into gold. Maybe it turned into modern chemistry? He wasn't sure. There had been something about Alchemists also creating magic serums and potions, too.
On one of the side streets was an open area where an ancient oak tree had been spared as the town was built. Pinto dropped down to lean up against the tree, unconsciously sitting where he could spot anyone approaching him. Like the way he selected camp areas when out on the plains or always kept his back away from windows when inside, his instincts had been shaped by years as a fugitive.
He recognized the nagging feeling that his mind was trying to fit two ideas together without getting far. Maybe it was about Second Story Sammy. How could someone slip into houses and rob them without waking anyone, especially since the thefts took place close to the sleepers? Not once, but three times? And considering that everyone would be increasingly vigilant after the first two robberies, it was even harder to figure.
As the wanderer puzzled it over, he spotted Netherwood crossing the main street and heading toward him. Pinto's right hand loosened his .44 in its holster without his realizing it. A dismal sinking feeling saddened him. Not another showdown. Another brief moment of fear and tension as he faced his challenger, then relief at still being alive, then melancholy at the thought he had killed again. And for what? Because some young buck wanted to build a reputation he could use to bully people around. Pinto was weary to his depths at the foolishness of it all.
When Josiah Netherwood got within speaking distance, he made a point of displaying his open hands well away from his sides, palms forward. "I ain't gonna call you, Pinto. I'm not here for gunplay."
"You'll forgive me if I don't rise, son."
"It don't make no never mind to me," Netherwood said. He was wearing the same clothing as the day before and evidently had not shaved. "I mean to be out tonight, going up and down back streets, watching and ready."
"Oh. You'll be hunting Second-Story Sammy."
"That is my purpose. I checked a calendar. He seems to do his misdeeds four weeks apart when the moon is full. It's full tonight."
Tom Pinto sat up a little straighter, studying the younger man. Long years of being on the run had sharpened his judgement about the gap between what people said and what they did. "I do not believe there is a reward for his capture."
"Not in money, suh, but bringing him in will get my rep underway."
"Mr Netherwood, you are young and ambitious and you want to tweak the nose of the world. That's natural. This Second-story Sammy is a burglar and a thief, but he has done no bodily harm to anyone. Under the law as I understand it, even if he was to be arrested by a peace officer, the use of deadly force would not be called for."
The would-be gunslinger snorted, squatting down to face Pinto. "Not if'n he pulls on me. I'd be justified. I'll burn him down, I'll put holes through him till the moonlight shows. And the folks hereabouts will be so tickled to not haveta worry about him, that they will treat me like a prince."
Pinto did not reply. He was struggling to hold down the temper which had so often made matters worse. If he riled this boy, a challenge might be unavoidable. Finally, he pulled his legs up under him and got to his feet. "My experience has been that every man has to learn his lessons his own self. I know when I was your age, the advice of my elders sounded timid and useless. Mr Netherwood, I surely had to learn the hard way every time and most likely you will, too."
"Fair enough. I intend to prove myself. I thank you kindly for giving me yore ear, suh. We started out on a bad footing and it pleases me to see you bear me no grudge."
Tom Pinto touched his brim of his slouch hat with two fingers, a cowboy gesture of respect. "A poker game at that NEW EDEN might draw me tonight, maybe we'll meet there. If not, I wish you good luck... and a long life."
IV.
At one-thirty in the morning, the window slid upward. A bulky figure climbed through, releasing his hold on a rope dangling down from the hotel roof. The room was dark and still. Second Story Sammy felt his way through the murk with excrutiating slowness, aiming for stealth rather than swiftness. There was the dresser. There, hanging over the back of the chair, hung a pair of heavy saddlebags. The burglar began to explore the cords holding those bags shut.
And in the opposite corner, someone lit a match with his nail and touched it to a candle in a glass holder. Revealed in the sudden light, Tom Pinto was sitting up full dressed and his right hand gripped that infamous .44 revolver.
"I was hoping you'd pay me a social call tonight, hombre," he said in the most conversational tone possible. "It 'pears to me you didn't waste much effort on that fool mask yore wearin' though."
In fact, the intruder had simply cut eyeholes in a white pillow case and tied it down around his neck with cord. Seeing that huge barrel pointing right at his face, Second Story Sammy gasped and promptly rushed both open hands up by his head. "I'm not armed! I swear it! Don't kill me, don't kill me, I beg you."
Pinto rose smoothly and walked over to stand at arm's length. "That's up to you, doc."
"'Doc...?!'"
"Shore nuff. Dr Bricknell, I knew it was you pulling off these robberies. That old musty book in your office gave it away. Why didn't any of your victims wake up when you were rifling through the same room they were in? Cause they were doped. They had taken one of the pills you gave 'em, and they slept like a stuffed raccoon. That Alchemy must be powerful medicine, doc."
"Pinto, listen to me." Bricknell lowered his arms and sighed. "I need the money right sorely. I have made some bad investments. I lost all I had buying farmland that turned out to be no good. I can't pay my nurse, I can't pay my rent, I'll lose everything if I don't get some cash in hand."
"That's your problem and nobody else's, least of all the honest folks you robbed. I do believe we have to roust the sheriff and get awake enough to lock you up. Turn around facing that wall, Bricknell, I have to slap you down for any irons."
"Pinto, I don't even own a gun."
"So you say."
"Damn your eyes. I have one more thing to say before my life ends in disgrace..." This was a ruse to draw Pinto nearer and listening. When Bricknell had brought his arms down, a folded piece of paper had dropped into one hand and now he flung fine red powder directly into Pinto's face.
Explosive coughing convulsed the outlaw, dropping him to his hands and knees, unable to speak or concentrate on anything except the fire in his chest. If Bricknell had been bolder, he might have seized Pinto's gun and clubbed him with it. Instead, the panicky doctor climbed back out the window, winding the rope around his legs and climbing laboriously back up in hope of escape.
The seizure only lasted a few seconds. Coughs gave way to wheezing and Pinto managed to stand up again, his .44 still in hand. Tears were pouring from his eyes, from his nose twin streams ran down his face. Whatever Alchemy had been in that powder, it had certainly worked.
Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he lurched over toward the open window. Outside, a familiar voice yelled up from the ground two floors below, "Stay where you are, Second Story Sammy! Freeze, I tell ya!"
A mere second later, Netherwood shouted, "I swear I'll cut ya into rags to make a little girl's doll." Then two gunshot exploded, deafening in the still night air, followed by a grunt of pain and then a wet sodden thump on the ground below.
His heart sinking, Tom Pinto found the hall door and staggered down the staircase with his hand on the bannister for guidance. His eyes were beginning to clear. Doors slammed open and excited voices followed him through the lobby and out into the night.
A crowd had gathered almost instantly, showing how on edge everyone's nerves had been that they had been half awake already. Barefoot men had on pants and undershirts. barefoot. Women were wrapped in nighgowns, many with hair bound up in a kerchief. They surrounded the space where Josiah Netherwood stood over the fresh corpse. As everyone gawked, Netherwood bent over and tugged the pillowcase mask free. The reaction to seeing Dr Bricknell in these circumstances launched a torrent of voices talking over each other.
"Yeah that's right!" Netherwood sang out proudly. "Second Story Sammy's reign of terror is hereby declared over. I will accept any medals you good people see fit to offer."
One of the men yelled, "The sheriff is on his way, Netherwood. He musta heard the shot. What the hayll is wrong with you? This is Doc Harknell you plugged."
"He.. he was Second Story Sammy. He was the rannie burgling everyone."
Coming in toward the edge of the crowd, Pinto realized no one noticed his presence. Netherwood was receiving all the attention he had craved.
"He don't have a gun!" another man said. "Even if he was thieving, there was no call to burn him down the way you did. We got laws here, this ain't a gold rush town."
Netherwood slowly holstered his gun and regarded the crowd with a face that had sagged as if melting. "What... what are you saying?"
"I'm sure you'll get your trial," another townsman said. "My guess is they'll transport you to Centerville. You know Judge Stacey? He's hardcase but fair. Maybe you won't hang."
"Hang? Trial? No! I was supposed to be the hero of this night." Whirling and shoving his way the people, Netherwood sprinted to where he had left his horse further up the street and scrambled up into the saddlr.
"Stop him!" a woman yelled.
"And get killed my own self?" her companion objected. "Let the lawmen do their job."
Sinking down on the edge of the hotel porch, Tom Pinto dropped his head down. He had seldom felt such despair. All this reminded him unbearably of his own fateful experience almost twenty years earlier. He knew too well the miserable life a hunted man must lead, the life Netherwood had just sentenced himself to. Pinto remembered he had warned Netherwood, but that was cold comfort.
10/19/2021
10/12-10/13/1885
I.
The cold wind blowing in from the prairie did not chill Tom Pinto as much as all the staring from the townspeople. On his chestnut horse, the aging gunfighter rode glumly down the main street of Vista Soledad and felt every eye on him. A two-horse wagon slowed almost to a halt as he went by. Curtains in windows were pulled aside. In front of the hardware store, two men arguing about some transaction froze silent until he had passed. More than one hand lowered to be near a holster. A door slammed as a young woman yanked her child inside.
He should have been hardened to this reception. For twenty years, Tom Pinto had been an outlaw, with wanted posters and a price on his head that went up frequently. In his late fifties, Pinto looked older because of his hard life and long exposure to the elements. There was as much grey as blond in his hair now, and deep furrows ran down both cheeks. He was tall, an inch or so over six feet, and lanky with long arms and legs. His boots and Levis and work shirt were unremarkable. It was the white vest with black spots that stood out. This had been made from the hide of a pinto pony that had belonged to the peacemaker Paiute chief Osawayatotha.
This vest had given him the handle by which he was known. Even the sheriffs and bounty hunters who sought him never knew his real name. Although he could have made himself less recognizable by packing that vest away, he wore it in sheer defiance and contrariness. Holstered on a well-worn gunbelt was a single-action .44, tied to his thigh so its butt hung exactly where his fingers could grasp it when his arms were lowered. The gun had its own campfire legends. Pinto had heard some of the tall tales and hadn't known whether to laugh or cry at the exaggerations.
Vista Soledad was a nice-looking town, with most of the buildings seemingly of very recent construction. Plenty of specialized stores, a school and a church at one end, a livery stable at the other. Pinto reined his horse in to the hitching post in front of a hotel with the name MAJESTIC painted in ornate script over the railed porch. The wanderer tied the horse to that post where a watering trough was within reach.
Close enough to be overheard, three men huddled on the far side of that porch. One muttered, "How long do you figger he's been around these parts? Mebbe he hasn't shown hisself until today."
"That would explain Second-Story Sammy right neatly," said another.
Moving up the five steps to the front door, Pinto gave the men a hard stare without realizing it. He turned toward them, intending only to ask what they meant, but they shrank back. One swung a leg over the railing and dropped down to the alley between the hotel and next building, breaking into a run.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! You can see I ain't armed," cried one of the men.
"Settle down, mister," Pinto called over. I'm not here to stir up trouble."
From within the open door, a woman's voice said, "It IS him! It's Tom Pinto, I tell you." The aging cowboy exhaled wearily.
With both the front door and two windows open, the lobby was not stuffy but cool and inviting. Large potted plants sat between comfortable armchairs, stairs led up to the next floor, a painting of a ship in a storm filled most of one walls. Behind the registration desk, one elderly woman with white hair in a bun clutched at the arm of another and stared with terrified eyes as he entered.
Pinto did not wear a Stetson but a wide-brimmed slouch hat and he had taken it off when coming inside. He held it in his left hand, realized that he did this to keep his gunhand free but was reluctant to break a habit that had saved his life more than once.
"Afternoon, ladies," he said, moving over to the desk. He plucked a few dollar bills from the side pocket of his vest and held them in sight. "I would be grateful for a real bed and a hot bath, if such are available."
"No, no, we are full up. We have no rooms," the taller of the women was quick to say.
Pinto waited a long moment without replying. His irritation at this reception was growing harsher and he could feel his temper start to flare. Finally he trusted himself to speak. "Ma'am, my money is as good as anyone else's. You have my word all I want is rest and food for me and for my hoss outside."
The second woman, shorter and heavier than the one who seemed to be in charge, cleared her throat. "I believe Christian charity urges us to give every person a fair chance, Madeleine. The back room on the second floor was vacated last night when that trapper left without settling his tab."
"Very well. Sir, this is my sister Adelaide. I am Madeleine Tulhill, this hotel is our ongoing concern. Our rates are one dollar a day for a room. I am saddened that I must mention no female guests are allowed as we are strong believers in decency. Three meals are available for seventy-five cents, whether one appears at night. That is to cover our expense for preparing the food."
"All this suits me right down to the ground," said the outlaw.
It was settled. Pinto paid for three days in advance, was informed of meal times and laundry service and signed the register under the baleful eye of the older woman. "I'll bring my saddle bags in presently," he said. "Would the stable down the street board my hoss, you think?"
"Absolutely. Little Efrem loves all animals but especially horses." The shorter woman seemed to be warming up to this notorious outlaw. "I'm sure your cayuse will be well tended, Mr Pinto."
"I would be much obliged," he said. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement in the open front door. Automatically, his gloved hand dropped to rest on the butt of his Colt. A small crowd was gathering out on the porch.
II.
Might as well get this over with, he thought. What wouldn't he give to be anonymous, to have his past forgotten, to be just a face in the crowd. But a man had to play the cards he dealt even if it was a losing hand.
Over a dozen men were waiting by the door, grumbling and muttering to each other. Only three were packing pistols, as the frontier was being tamed and settling down. He remembered gold boom towns and border towns where no one went unarmed if they wanted to see. Seeing the grim expression on Pinto's face, the crowd parted to give him an opening and one or two on the fringe quietly slipped off.
Standing right in the outlaw's path was a man still in his early twenties, wearing a flamboyant red and gold silk shirt that no working cowboy would have ever owned. His flat-brimmed hat had Navajo beading, his boots were tooled with intricate swirls and he wore two separate gunbelts, one for the right hand and one for the left. As soon as he saw the smirk, Tom Pinto fought hard to keep from backhanding him right across that smug face.
The rest of the crowd watched tensely, barely breathing, no one wanting to call out special attention to himself. Keeping his tone civil with great effort, Pinto said, "It appears there is something you wish to say to me."
"You reckon rightly. We citizens of Vista Soledad want to know what your business is in our little town."
"I have no business as such," Pinto replied. "I'm passing through on my way toward Mexico. I've paid for a few days at this establishment and then I will be moving on." The faintest tinge of mockery slipped into his voice. "Rest assured, you have nothing to be nervous about."
"Nervous? Me? Suh, the sun never rose on a day that saw Josiah Netherwood nervous."
"I take that as a reassurance," Pinto said. He moved past the man, not quite brushing up against him, and started unstrapping his saddlebags. Pinto has only owned the chestnut horse for a month but he had become fond of the gentle and cooperative steed.
Leaving the saddle and reins for the moment, the wanderer turned back toward the front door of the MAJESTIC, only to find Netherwood blocking his way. "That's not a friendly gesture to a tired dusty wayfarer," Pinto said quietly.
"Tired dusty wayfarers don't carry a price on their heads, suh. Five thousand dollars isn't chicken feed."
"No one is gonna haul my carcass all the way to Texas to claim that blood money," Pinto said. "I am not wanted in this territory. I intend to keep that arrangement."
Josiah Netherwood grinned in a remarkably annoying way. He was standing with feet well apart, hands hovering down by his guns. "That may not be your choice to make."
"Son..." Pinto began, but there was a long pause before he continued. "You ever sit up at night wonderin' what happens when you die? Never mind the Sunday School stories. It's like before you were born. There is no 'you' at all. If you catch a bullet with yore forehead today, you'll never know anything about it. You'll be gone like a candle what got snuffed out."
Surprisingly, that seemed to defuse Netherwood's confrontational attitude. The tightness in his face eased up. He swung his body sideways to offer passage. "Those are hard words, Tom Pinto."
"Take them to heart. You've got a lot of pretty girls yet to kiss, a lot of sunsets to watch, a lot of card games to win. You can throw it all away in a blink. Anyone of us can lose our future in a blink." And he walked past the challenger into the lobby.
Up on the second floor, he unlocked his room and studied it. Clean fresh linen, a window open so the wind blew lace curtains about, the room was more refined than he had expected. The big double bed, dresser and chairs were in decent shape. Pinto put his saddle bags down and gazed out the window to see men moving away from the porch and down the street. Good.
There was a big pitcher of water in a basin, some towels and a bar of harsh lye soap. Fair enough, he thought as he stripped to the waste. Pinto cleaned himself up as best he could before fetching his spare shirt and socks from the bags. He had five hundred dollars with him, enough to buy a few more items before leaving Vista Soledad. A winter coat was going to be a necessity, he also had wanted some eating utensils to make his meager meals out in the wilderness more congenial.
Suddenly the bed tempted him. he could yank off his boots, stretch out on top of the wool blankets and sleep for days. Maybe hibernate through the winter. No. Take care of your horse first was a rule he always kept. Tom Pinto went back out into the hall and down the staircase, passing a short Mexican man carrying an armful of folded clothing. Outside again, he felt as many eyes fixed on him as before, but the townspeople seemed less horrified and simply curious.
Walking alongside the chestnut toward the livery stable, Pinto slowed as he went past a saloon with a sign hanging from a horizontal post, NEW EDEN. Maybe he would spend some time there. Pinto had sworn off drinking not because he hated it but because he liked it too much. It had led to a few confrontations where death had been the resolution. He wouldn't mind hearing some honky-tonk piano and seeing if there were any local newspapers to read, maybe even see if any of the upstairs girls were bearable. But he was not sanguine about a peaceful stay in this town. That Netherwood boy might not be the only would-be gunslinger looking to build a reputation.
III.
At the dining room table that evening, Pinto heard about Second Story Sammy.
Promptly at six-thirty, the two Tulhill sisters brought in a wheeled cart bearing a steaming hot kettle and several covered baskets. They made their way around the table, each guest holding up his plate and receiving the same share. No seconds were offered. Pinto was one of five men staying at the MAJESTIC who had appeared for dinner; it was mentioned that a sixth guest had not elected to show.
The outlaw was more than satisfied with the meal. Beef stew with carrots, peas and onions, some drop biscuits and a square of warm corn bread. It wasn't fine cuisine but it was all fresh and plentiful. Tom Pinto most nights hunched over a tiny campfire eating boiled beans or flapjacks made with water. When more than two guests had finished, Madeleine brought over an apple pie to dole out generous slices. Finally feeling a warm glow of well-being for the first time in weeks, Tom Pinto decided this had been seventy-five cents well spent.
During the meal, he heard about the town's biggest sensation, three burglaries in two months by Second-Story Sammy. This was the name the people of Vista Soledad had given to an unknown person who had committed three home robberies, considered unusually daring because in each case the lone man robbed had been asleep right in the same room.
"Fella must be right light on his feet," ventured Pinto. "Climbing up the back some house, sneaking in without rousting a soul. I don't calculate a good-sized man with meat on his bones could manage that."
Opposite Pinto sat a stout middle-aged man in a full suit, including brocade vest and string tie with a pin shaped like a eagle. Despite the paunch, he seemed to be brawny enough, his biceps and shoulders hinted at considerable strength. "There are those who cast a suspicious eye on a Cherokee family who work Old Man Lemister's farm. The boys are barefoot more often than not. They are wiry agile little heathens."
Pinto nodded gravely. "These three men who was robbed, they know each other?"
"Only to bid hello in the street. We are not that large a community and newcomers are rare. Mr Pinto, may I ask you to regale us with some of your exploits?"
"I do not believe I can oblige you," Pinto said. "Tales grow in the telling. Best not to take them as much more than yarn spinning."
At the end of the table, a gaunt man in rough work clothes put down his second of the two coffee cups available. "I read one of them dime novels about you, Mr Pinto. A Foster's Nickel Library book. You were depicted stampeding a herd of buffalo through a ranch to scare out some owlhoots who were holding captive girls."
"Wish I had as much imagination as them writers!" scoffed Pinto. "Mebbe I could make a livin' that way."
The well-dressed man extracted a thick brown cigar from his vest. "I believe I will step outside and enjoy this. Anyone care to join me?"
"I would be pleased to do so," Tom Pinto said, pushing back his chair. "I got my own fixins'."
The working man also rose. "I doesn't smoke but I would like some night air. Got an early day tomorrow."
Praising the cooking drew blushes and pleased murmurs from the Tulhill sisters. The three guests went out on the porch, where the well-dressed man lowered himself to a bench while the worker leaned back against the railing and sighed contentedly. The town was quiet enough. Most of the shops had closed at sunset. From down the street came faint echoes of a tinny piano attempting "Camptown Races." That would be from the NEW EDEN.
As he had done in the saddle many times, Tom Pinto got out papers and his tobacco pouch to roll a cigarette not much thicker than a pin. From the inner pocket of his vest, he dug out a wooden match to scratch into life with his thumbnail. "I don't allow myself more than one of these a day," he announced. "Too many times I have to go without."
"Allow me to introduce myself," said the older man. His greying hair was slicked back with some aromatic pomade. "Ambrose Bricknell, M.D. Surgeon, dentist and veterinary doctor if need be. My office is in the building across the street. I decided to reside here at the MAJESTIC for the convenience. My cooking is abominable."
The two men shook hands amiably and both turned toward the third man. "Woodbridge Sumner, folks call me Woody. I ain't no one notable," he admitted. "Just a migratory soul looking for work. I am a fair hand at carpentry and repairs. Some of the farmers call on me to fix broken furniture and wagon wheels and such. Pray excuse me, gentlemen. I must rise early tomorrow."
After Woody had gone back inside, the outlaw and the doctor chatted in a low-key way. "Your arrival has the town as frantic as a wet chicken," Bricknell said. "They seem to expect you will engage in some showdown on the main street where bullets will fly like hail in a storm."
"Nah. Not me, I'm a peaceful soul who craves nothin' but quiet. I might be stopping by yore office, though. Got me a cut on my foot that don't look right. If'n it is getting infected, better to tend to it early."
"Wise words, my friend! Preventing disease is always prerable to trying to cure it. My nurse opens the door when the town clock strikes nine every morning except Sunday. Well, I bid you good night, sir."
"Same to you, amigo." Left alone in the gloom, Tom Pinto worked over everything he had been told about this so-called Second-Story Sammy. It was none of his business in any way, but he felt compelled to buy chips in every game where innocent folks were being hurt. Pinto was haunted by an eerie spiritual revelation he had survived a few years earlier. He often awoke from dreams in which he once again heard a spectral voice call his name and warn him to change his ways before it was too late.
Pinto had taken that sighting of the riders as a warning he had better heed. Never mentioning it to anyone, he had since tried to be a better man in every way. If only to save himself from that dismal fate.
IV.
After a solid meal and a sound sleep in a real bed, Tom Pinto found the world looking much more pleasant when the sunlight came through his window. He yawned, stretched, scratched his back and got the chamber pot out from under the bed to relieve himself in. Quiet comfort never lasted though. He knew from bitter experience that something would force him to leave this town and hit the unmarked trails again. Something always did.
The crisp clear air lifted his spirits. Pinto checked in on his horse and spent a few minutes reassuring the animal. He would come back later with an apple as a treat. At the general goods store, he purchased two more pairs of cotton socks and a blue chambray shirt, then on impulse picked up a new jackknife, matches and a bag of rough cut tobacco. Pinto was flat busted so much that buying luxury items made him uncomfortable.
The townspeople still watched him the way they'd watch a stray mountain wolf strolling through town but their fascination seemed to hold less fear than the day before. Maybe getting a good look at him had taken some edge off the fearsome reputation. He had been snoring when breakfast had been served at the hotel, so the aroma from a chop house drew him irresistably. Pinto found a fat man with excessively hairy arms at work at the grill. The stained apron and smell of grease didn't bother Pinto, he had survived on ripe meat many times. A plump steak with a boiled potato and lard, no greens, suited him fine.
Back out on the street, he spotted a shingle hanging from a beam protruding out over the wooden walk. AMBROSE Bricknell, MD, DDS. He remembered his foot and decided to have it checked out. A tiny bell tinkled as he opened the door. Behind a desk, a middle-aged Mexican woman with thick gorgeous hair done up on top of her head smiled at him.
"Good morning," he said, taking off his hat out of courtesy. "I told the doc I might be in today, got something I'd like him to take a look at."
As the nurse began to reply, the inner door swung open and Bricknell laughed. "And here you are! It's been less busy than usual, sir. I can see you immediately."
The room beyond was an office, with shelves full of reference books, framed diplomas on the walls and a locked cabinet that presumably held valuable medicines. Aside from the paper-littered desk and three chairs, the other piece of furniture in that room was a chest-high table long enough to accomodate a tall man. This was covered at the moment with a fresh sheet.
"I haven't forgotten what you said, son. Suppose you plant yourself up on the exam table and let's see what you're dealing with."
After a brief inspection, the doctor got a scalpel which he wiped with a clean cloth and then made an incision at the red swollen area on the side of Pinto's foot. He then swabbed it with stinging alcohol and applied a dressing. "That was on its way to developing a nasty infection, Mr Pinto. I would advise you to check it tomorrow and keep it clean if you can."
Pulling his sock and boot back on, the outlaw hopped down. "Much obliged, sir. I'm too accustomed to toughing injuries out."
"Rosalita will settle with you. My fee is three dollars for something minor like this. Do you have any problems..." His sentence was cut off by a man shouting at the top of his lungs in the reception room. "Mercy, that's Curly Red and he sounds drunk again. Wait here, if you will. I can talk him into going home."
As the voices alternated between slurred yelling and calming reassurances, Pinto glanced around the room. Something caught his eye. Most of the volumes on those shelves were matching items from a set. Encyclopedias, textbooks. But tucked away on a shelf were three old tattered books that seemed out of place. Curiosity won out. Tom Pinto leaned over to read the barely legible titles on the ragged spines.
SECRETS OF ALCHEMY REVEALED. LOST WISDOM OF THE ANCIENTS. THE GREAT ART. Pinto raised an eyebrow, not knowing what to think except that the doc had some obscure interests. He knew the word 'Alchemy' but hadn't expected to see it in a modern surgeon's office. For some reason it unsettled him.
The slamming of the street door brought him out of his thoughts. He stepped back toward the table as Bricknell returned.
"That man is impossible," the doctor sputtered. "I swear his liver must look like a piece of charcoal by now. Anyway. Give me a second, Mr Pinto. Where's my key, ah here we go." From the cabinet, he took a blue glass bottle and tapped out three white pills into a folded piece of paper which he handed to the cowboy.
"I want you to take one each night before retiring. Drink a good amount of water with them. I do not believe you have any cause for concern, but since you say you are out alone on the prairie most of the time, prudence is well advised."
"I thank you kindly, doc," Pinto said. "I expect to be residing at the MAJESTIC for another two, three days. No doubt we will meet at the dining table."
Placing a hand on the taller man's shoulder, Bricknell ushered him out, through the reception room and toward the street. "No doubt. I look forward to some enlightening conversation. Now I must ask you to excuse, a regular patient will be here shortly."
Nodding politely to the nurse Rosalita, Pinto walked out into the street. This time, he hardly noticed the faces at windows, eyes following him. He was straining his memory for anything about Alchemy. It was some silly old nonsense from long ago, people trying to turn lead into gold. Maybe it turned into modern chemistry? He wasn't sure. There had been something about Alchemists also creating magic serums and potions, too.
On one of the side streets was an open area where an ancient oak tree had been spared as the town was built. Pinto dropped down to lean up against the tree, unconsciously sitting where he could spot anyone approaching him. Like the way he selected camp areas when out on the plains or always kept his back away from windows when inside, his instincts had been shaped by years as a fugitive.
He recognized the nagging feeling that his mind was trying to fit two ideas together without getting far. Maybe it was about Second Story Sammy. How could someone slip into houses and rob them without waking anyone, especially since the thefts took place close to the sleepers? Not once, but three times? And considering that everyone would be increasingly vigilant after the first two robberies, it was even harder to figure.
As the wanderer puzzled it over, he spotted Netherwood crossing the main street and heading toward him. Pinto's right hand loosened his .44 in its holster without his realizing it. A dismal sinking feeling saddened him. Not another showdown. Another brief moment of fear and tension as he faced his challenger, then relief at still being alive, then melancholy at the thought he had killed again. And for what? Because some young buck wanted to build a reputation he could use to bully people around. Pinto was weary to his depths at the foolishness of it all.
When Josiah Netherwood got within speaking distance, he made a point of displaying his open hands well away from his sides, palms forward. "I ain't gonna call you, Pinto. I'm not here for gunplay."
"You'll forgive me if I don't rise, son."
"It don't make no never mind to me," Netherwood said. He was wearing the same clothing as the day before and evidently had not shaved. "I mean to be out tonight, going up and down back streets, watching and ready."
"Oh. You'll be hunting Second-Story Sammy."
"That is my purpose. I checked a calendar. He seems to do his misdeeds four weeks apart when the moon is full. It's full tonight."
Tom Pinto sat up a little straighter, studying the younger man. Long years of being on the run had sharpened his judgement about the gap between what people said and what they did. "I do not believe there is a reward for his capture."
"Not in money, suh, but bringing him in will get my rep underway."
"Mr Netherwood, you are young and ambitious and you want to tweak the nose of the world. That's natural. This Second-story Sammy is a burglar and a thief, but he has done no bodily harm to anyone. Under the law as I understand it, even if he was to be arrested by a peace officer, the use of deadly force would not be called for."
The would-be gunslinger snorted, squatting down to face Pinto. "Not if'n he pulls on me. I'd be justified. I'll burn him down, I'll put holes through him till the moonlight shows. And the folks hereabouts will be so tickled to not haveta worry about him, that they will treat me like a prince."
Pinto did not reply. He was struggling to hold down the temper which had so often made matters worse. If he riled this boy, a challenge might be unavoidable. Finally, he pulled his legs up under him and got to his feet. "My experience has been that every man has to learn his lessons his own self. I know when I was your age, the advice of my elders sounded timid and useless. Mr Netherwood, I surely had to learn the hard way every time and most likely you will, too."
"Fair enough. I intend to prove myself. I thank you kindly for giving me yore ear, suh. We started out on a bad footing and it pleases me to see you bear me no grudge."
Tom Pinto touched his brim of his slouch hat with two fingers, a cowboy gesture of respect. "A poker game at that NEW EDEN might draw me tonight, maybe we'll meet there. If not, I wish you good luck... and a long life."
IV.
At one-thirty in the morning, the window slid upward. A bulky figure climbed through, releasing his hold on a rope dangling down from the hotel roof. The room was dark and still. Second Story Sammy felt his way through the murk with excrutiating slowness, aiming for stealth rather than swiftness. There was the dresser. There, hanging over the back of the chair, hung a pair of heavy saddlebags. The burglar began to explore the cords holding those bags shut.
And in the opposite corner, someone lit a match with his nail and touched it to a candle in a glass holder. Revealed in the sudden light, Tom Pinto was sitting up full dressed and his right hand gripped that infamous .44 revolver.
"I was hoping you'd pay me a social call tonight, hombre," he said in the most conversational tone possible. "It 'pears to me you didn't waste much effort on that fool mask yore wearin' though."
In fact, the intruder had simply cut eyeholes in a white pillow case and tied it down around his neck with cord. Seeing that huge barrel pointing right at his face, Second Story Sammy gasped and promptly rushed both open hands up by his head. "I'm not armed! I swear it! Don't kill me, don't kill me, I beg you."
Pinto rose smoothly and walked over to stand at arm's length. "That's up to you, doc."
"'Doc...?!'"
"Shore nuff. Dr Bricknell, I knew it was you pulling off these robberies. That old musty book in your office gave it away. Why didn't any of your victims wake up when you were rifling through the same room they were in? Cause they were doped. They had taken one of the pills you gave 'em, and they slept like a stuffed raccoon. That Alchemy must be powerful medicine, doc."
"Pinto, listen to me." Bricknell lowered his arms and sighed. "I need the money right sorely. I have made some bad investments. I lost all I had buying farmland that turned out to be no good. I can't pay my nurse, I can't pay my rent, I'll lose everything if I don't get some cash in hand."
"That's your problem and nobody else's, least of all the honest folks you robbed. I do believe we have to roust the sheriff and get awake enough to lock you up. Turn around facing that wall, Bricknell, I have to slap you down for any irons."
"Pinto, I don't even own a gun."
"So you say."
"Damn your eyes. I have one more thing to say before my life ends in disgrace..." This was a ruse to draw Pinto nearer and listening. When Bricknell had brought his arms down, a folded piece of paper had dropped into one hand and now he flung fine red powder directly into Pinto's face.
Explosive coughing convulsed the outlaw, dropping him to his hands and knees, unable to speak or concentrate on anything except the fire in his chest. If Bricknell had been bolder, he might have seized Pinto's gun and clubbed him with it. Instead, the panicky doctor climbed back out the window, winding the rope around his legs and climbing laboriously back up in hope of escape.
The seizure only lasted a few seconds. Coughs gave way to wheezing and Pinto managed to stand up again, his .44 still in hand. Tears were pouring from his eyes, from his nose twin streams ran down his face. Whatever Alchemy had been in that powder, it had certainly worked.
Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he lurched over toward the open window. Outside, a familiar voice yelled up from the ground two floors below, "Stay where you are, Second Story Sammy! Freeze, I tell ya!"
A mere second later, Netherwood shouted, "I swear I'll cut ya into rags to make a little girl's doll." Then two gunshot exploded, deafening in the still night air, followed by a grunt of pain and then a wet sodden thump on the ground below.
His heart sinking, Tom Pinto found the hall door and staggered down the staircase with his hand on the bannister for guidance. His eyes were beginning to clear. Doors slammed open and excited voices followed him through the lobby and out into the night.
A crowd had gathered almost instantly, showing how on edge everyone's nerves had been that they had been half awake already. Barefoot men had on pants and undershirts. barefoot. Women were wrapped in nighgowns, many with hair bound up in a kerchief. They surrounded the space where Josiah Netherwood stood over the fresh corpse. As everyone gawked, Netherwood bent over and tugged the pillowcase mask free. The reaction to seeing Dr Bricknell in these circumstances launched a torrent of voices talking over each other.
"Yeah that's right!" Netherwood sang out proudly. "Second Story Sammy's reign of terror is hereby declared over. I will accept any medals you good people see fit to offer."
One of the men yelled, "The sheriff is on his way, Netherwood. He musta heard the shot. What the hayll is wrong with you? This is Doc Harknell you plugged."
"He.. he was Second Story Sammy. He was the rannie burgling everyone."
Coming in toward the edge of the crowd, Pinto realized no one noticed his presence. Netherwood was receiving all the attention he had craved.
"He don't have a gun!" another man said. "Even if he was thieving, there was no call to burn him down the way you did. We got laws here, this ain't a gold rush town."
Netherwood slowly holstered his gun and regarded the crowd with a face that had sagged as if melting. "What... what are you saying?"
"I'm sure you'll get your trial," another townsman said. "My guess is they'll transport you to Centerville. You know Judge Stacey? He's hardcase but fair. Maybe you won't hang."
"Hang? Trial? No! I was supposed to be the hero of this night." Whirling and shoving his way the people, Netherwood sprinted to where he had left his horse further up the street and scrambled up into the saddlr.
"Stop him!" a woman yelled.
"And get killed my own self?" her companion objected. "Let the lawmen do their job."
Sinking down on the edge of the hotel porch, Tom Pinto dropped his head down. He had seldom felt such despair. All this reminded him unbearably of his own fateful experience almost twenty years earlier. He knew too well the miserable life a hunted man must lead, the life Netherwood had just sentenced himself to. Pinto remembered he had warned Netherwood, but that was cold comfort.
10/19/2021