Free Wyoming Slaughter by William W. Johnstone Page A

wagons came rolling in, snow-caked, cold, frostbitten, and steaming the air.
    I stepped outside, trying to fathom what that was all about. There were about twenty of the toughest hombres I’d ever seen, men with big walrus mustaches, bright red noses, long dark coats, square-toed boots, and a variety of caps that were mostly made of animal pelts. The horses looked worn; they had dragged those wagons through some tough drifts. A few men were carrying long guns, but whatever the rest were carrying was hidden under those big black coats.
    The odd thing was the four wagons, which looked like they came from a circus. In fact, they were circus wagons, gilded and gaudy. One was a sleeper wagon, and three were rolling cages with iron bars. These were empty. The only time I had seen wagons like that, there were lions and tigers in them. It was so cold and blowing that not even the gaudy parade drew a crowd. Mostly people stayed inside, huddled around their stoves. But here was a company of men and wagons that defied explanation. They weren’t doing anything illegal, and I figured I’d get the skinny of it pretty quick.
    It didn’t take long until the whole outfit was parked outside the sheriff office on Courthouse Square, and that’s when one of the frostbit men finally detached himself, tipped a hat to me, and walked into the warm office.
    â€œGoose Cannon here, out of Cheyenne,” he said. “You the sheriff?”
    â€œI am. Cotton Pickens.”
    â€œGood. We’re here to help out. I didn’t know if we’d make it in time, but we did. We got hired by the Women’s Temperance Union to help you shut down all them saloons at one minute after midnight.”
    â€œHired?”
    â€œYeah, they wired us for help. We’re willing to work for anyone, long as we’re well paid. We got us some of the best artillerists this side of Possum Creek. We butcher first and buy our hunting license later. The ladies said you’d deputize us, just to keep it all on the up and up. We’ll just bust in, right after midnight, and shoot out the lights.”
    â€œCannon, that’s not what we’ve got cooking here, but thanks for the help.”
    â€œDon’t thank me, thank the women. It don’t matter whether you pin badges on us. At one minute after midnight, we’re going to shut down Doubtful like it’s never been shut down before.”
    â€œYou’re not going to do that, and you’ll keep those guns off your persons. That’s a city ordinance.”
    â€œWell, friend, your city ordinance is going to get itself ignored for a while,” Cannon said. “See those circus wagons? We brought our own cozy little jails along. We heard you got just two dinky cells, which ain’t enough to keep a few old souses safe, much less most of the rannigans off the ranches. So we brought our own, and we’re going to fill ’em fast, and we’ll let them freeze their asses in the cold until they repent, and then maybe we’ll let them go.”
    â€œSorry, Cannon, that’s not how it’s going to work, and if you pull some deal like that, you’ll end up in those cages yourself.”
    â€œThem women, they knew you’d be on the wrong side, so they just said ignore Pickens; the head lady, she’s married to the county supervisor, and that’s all we need. You stay outa trouble, boy.”
    This sure was a pickle. I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere by arguing, not with twenty killers with more balls than a pawnshop, their hands not far from whatever lay on their waists under the buffalo coats and black slickers.
    â€œSuit yourself. You can probably board those horses at Turk’s Livery Barn, and maybe he’ll let you sleep in the hayloft.”
    Cannon smiled. “I knew you’d be sensible.” He turned to his bunch. “Follow the plan,” he said.
    â€œWhat plan?”
    â€œOh, relax, Sheriff. We got