The Big Showdown by Mickey Spillane

Author:Mickey Spillane
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-02-26T05:00:00+00:00

Tulley had slept most of the day.

The sheriff had put him on night patrol, and that meant a lot of prowling around, checking doors and alleys. The work was nerve-racking at times but mostly dull. During the day, Tulley slept on a cot in one of the cells at the rear of the office, because Clem over at the livery was put out with him for quitting and wouldn’t let him sleep in his usual corner.

His stint on night patrol started at sundown and he was to keep it up for an hour after the Victory closed. Right now the saloon was open—it was going on eleven P.M. The place had no set closing time, but this time of week, business would be slow. By one A.M., they’d likely close the shutters over them batwing doors and lock up all around. So by two A.M. or so, he could hit the cot in that cell again.

Till tonight, Tulley had been walking on a cloud. A deputy! With his own badge! His own scattergun! And, thanks to Caleb York, the Citizens Committee had agreed to pay him forty dollars a month. The last time he made forty dollars was that silver strike that petered out the second week.

But walking up and down this sandy street made him thirsty. He was dragging. He looked almost longingly at the boardwalk he had so often crawled under to sleep, and sleep it off. It was cool under there in the warm times, and warm in the cool ones. He reckoned a man never had a more cozy resting spot betwixt womb and grave.

And he had traded that snug nest, and the companionship of a good bottle, for a jail cell?

Of course, Caleb York said he’d find Tulley something better. Just give him time. But time was something Caleb York didn’t have—Tulley knew the sheriff was only here for now. That when the robbery matter was wrapped up in a bow, Caleb York and his reputation would get on the stage, and then where would Tulley be?

Would the next sheriff keep him on?

Not likely. Not dang likely. Not damn likely.

His gut was twitching with the want of God’s sweet nectar. His throat ain’t felt this parched since the mule before Daisy up and died on him in the desert. He sat on the boardwalk steps in front of the hardware store and thought about his lot in life, the scattergun across his lap. He might have cried some.

Then got to his feet, shook the feeling off, told that damn thirst to crawl back in its hole, and Deputy Jonathan Tulley strode with pride down the street. Very much on patrol. And he was fine, just fine until he stepped into the pool of light spilling from the Victory.

He crept up to the batwing doors and peeked over, and in.

Hell’s bells but it was dead in there. Hardly a soul. Some men playing poker and that was about all she wrote. The fancy girls was at a table smoking little cee-gars, and looking glum like flowers nobody wanted to pluck.

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