Toodle-oo, Mayor

Ottentail, Arizona

1875

“Painter!”

The man known throughout town only by his profession rolls onto his back, letting out a phlegmy cough.

Skin and bones, with one sad grey eye and the other covered by a patch and sporting a bushy brown beard and the remnants of a rumpled suit, Painter possesses immense talent. He’s created numerous portraits and landscapes, as well as the risqué painting of painted lady Queen Winona that hangs over the Wildweed Saloon’s bar, but he drinks away what money he makes.

“I’m letting you out so you can enjoy Mayor Ottentail’s three-day birthday celebration,” Marshal Cy Kinkaid says.

A towering, authoritative figure with a deep voice and rugged looks, thirty-five-year-old New Hampshire native Cy is assisted in his duties by his thirty-three-year-old Biloxi-born Deputy Van Sickle, whose droopy mustache, short, skinny frame, and lack of education belie his courage.

“It’s bad enough this rat trap town is named after him,” Painter says. “The only thing that blathering weasel deserves is a birthday cake with a stick of dynamite in it.”

“You’re off your mental reservation. For somebody who’s only been here a year, you sure formulated a deep dislike for the Mayor,” Van notes. “It ain’t ‘cause he’s a Southerner, is it? ‘Cause if it is, you n’ me gonna have a tussle.”

Painter pulls his rumpled vest into place. “No. It’s who he is.”

“He’s been Mayor here for seven years,” Cy says. “Seven prosperous years. He helped start the bank and sank his own roll into the general store and the livery stable. He hired us to protect the town. He’s talked up your skills as an artist and sent you business. Just because he teases you once in a while about your liquor intake doesn’t make him a bad man. You ought to kiss his feet.”

“I’ve got something else he can kiss.”

                                               ***

Exiting the Town Hall, Mayor Druce Ottentail surveys the town’s crowded streets. Banners are stretched between buildings, saying, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR BELOVED MAYOR, and HAPPY FORTYITH, MAYOR OTTENTAIL! Salesmen hawking remedies, clowns handing out candy, peddlers selling silks, and stalls offering games of skill line the streets.

Druce grumbles when he sees his wife posing for a portrait.

Opal Ottentail is noted for her pale, delicate looks. She is also witty, erudite, knowledgeable, and caring, qualities missing in Druce, who is viewed as all business, as suggested by his reedy build, stern features, beady eyes, tidy mustache, and refined Southern accent.

“Really? In the street? You’re treating the first lady of Ottentail like a common harlot.”

Painter puts his brush down on the easel. “I don’t have a studio, Ottertail.”

Druce pulls his wife to his side. “Well, you need to get one, you disgusting Yankee vagabond. Until you do, stay away from Opal. Who ever heard of a one-eyed painter? And in the future, the name’s Ottentail, and you’ll address me by my title.”

“Yes, mare.”

Druce’s pallid features burn crimson. He takes a threatening step toward Painter but is pulled back by Cy.

Van positions himself between them. “I never seen two men who can get each other’s goat more than you two.”

“Look around you, Mayor. Look at the banners, the balloons, and the stalls selling cards and buttons with your name and face on them celebrating your birthday. You don’t want to spoil all this by picking a fight with Painter.”

“It’s about time my husband was feted, don’t you think?” Opal beams as Druce pulls her away.

“Yes, ma’am,” Van replies, giving Cy a queer side glance.

“She just say somethin’ about the Mayor smellin’ bad?” Van asks.

Six men on horseback trot past. The burly lead rider locks eyes with Cy.

“…That’s Jack Aker…”

“I’d say our peaceful celebration just went to seed,” Van comments.

                                               ***

Aker and his gang tie their horses up at the Wildweed Saloon. Jack Aker takes a long, scornful look at Cy and Van before joining the rest of the gang inside.

Born in Massachusetts, the Aker brothers served in the Union Army during the war. Afterward, they were guards for the Northeastern Railway until they realized that robbing trains was easier and more profitable than guarding them.

Wearing a perpetual frown across his sunburnt features, forty-four-year-old Jack Aker is crafty and murderous. Unlike his brothers, Jack is educated and prefers swindling to shooting. A ladies’ man before the war, Thirty-seven-year-old Lon Aker is sensitive about the angry red scar that runs from his forehead to his chin. Thirty-year-old Boston “Belly” Aker is an imposing 6’ 6” and unafraid to use his size to get what he wants. Riding with the Akers are their scruffy seventeen-year-old cousins, Les and Stanley Tremaine, who have fallen in love with the outlaw life.

“Them hard cases is here for one thing - skullduggery,” Van says. “Six agin two. The odds ain’t stacked in our favor.”

“Maybe we can reduce them and nip this situation in the bud. That tall dandy in the black duster and the stove pipe hat? That’s Cack Bruder. He’s wanted for killing a man in Stiffgate that he claimed dealt from the bottom. Let’s send him back there.”

Drawing his gun, Cy confronts Bruder at the Faro table.

“Party’s over. You’ve got a hanging to attend. Yours.”

The Tremaine brothers brandish Bowie knives.

Van swings the shotgun in their direction. “Really, children?”

“Behave, boys,” Jack says.

Belly Aker slowly rises. “You gotta go through me to get him.”

Van points the shotgun at Belly. “This’ll go through you faster’n spoilt milk.”

Jack pulls his brother back into his chair.

“Turn your steam down, Boston. You shouldn’t treat visitors who’ve come here to spend their money and join your celebration like this, Marshal.”

“Is that why you’re here, Jack?” Cy asks. “It’s not to rob the bank, steal some strumpet’s pay, or gun somebody?”

“No, no, and maybe,” Jack replies, smirking.

“Well, there’s going to be one less of you to do it,” Cy replies. “C’mon, Cack.”

Bruder raises his hands. “You gonna help me out, Jack?”

“We know a Jim Dandy lawyer in Stiffgate,” Jack replies.  

“Don’t worry, Cack,” Lon adds. “If we can’t free you legally, we’ll blast you out as soon as we’re through here. But don’t worry. Any witness to your shootin’ who gets a good look at Belly’s gonna forget what he saw.”

Cy motions Cack toward the door.

“You’re starting out on the wrong foot, Marshal.”

“I was about to say the same thing, Jack.”

Lon turns to Jack as Cack is led away.

“We just lost our best shooter.”

“That doesn’t change what we came here to do.”

                                               ***

Van picks at his teeth with a toothpick.

“That was what you call a gourmet lunch. We ought to do that more often.”

“As often as my wallet can take, Deputy.”

Tilting his head, Van asks, “What in tarnation is that noise?”

“Sounds like a drumbeat. But the parade’s not ‘till later,” Cy answers.

The pair follow the sound, which leads them to the town hall.

Painter is marching back and forth in front of the building, banging on an old drum.

Druce exits the building. Shaking his fist at Painter, he rushes to the lawmen’s side.

“Arrest him!”

Cy scratches his head. “For what? Bad rhythm?”

“Disturbing the peace. He’s a menace!”

“Since when did a drum become a dangerous weapon?” Van questions.

“Just tell him to vamoose. I’m trying to close a deal to bring the railroad here, but he’s ruining my chance.”

“You mean our chance, right, Mayor?” Cy asks.

“Do your job, or you’ll be looking for another one,” Druce huffs, retreating inside.

Van whistles. “Guess some folks is still fightin’ the war.”

                                               ***

Later that afternoon, Painter is plying his craft outside the Wildweed Saloon.

“Try not to squirm, Pearl,” Painter says to his subject.

“Why? This ain’t no photygraph.”

Painter looks at Pearl, then back at his painting, hoping the tough cook will be happy to see herself without the pockmarks and missing teeth that mar her coarse appearance.

Passing by, Druce glances at the portrait, muttering, “Ugly as a mud fence.”

“You say something, your majesty?” Pearl asks, making a fist.

“Just how lovely you look.”

“I can’t believe they’s holdin’ a celebration fer you, you four-flusher,” Pearl says.

“Sounds like she knows you well,” Painter comments.

Several townspeople gather around the portrait to gawk at it as Pearl raises her voice.

“My husband, Maitland, rest his soul, fought off the Apaches to help bring this town into bein’. He don’t get no parade, no fireworks, no banners. All you done, Druce, is claim his accomplishments for your own while keepin’ your hand in the town’s treasury till.”

The spectators glare at Druce, who smiles sheepishly.

Jack and Lon join the crowd, throwing their arms around Druce.

“Howdy, Mayor,” Jack says, smirking.

“Yeah, remember us?” Lon asks, running his finger down his scar.

Druce breaks away from them, bumping into Cy.

“These scallywags are causing trouble,” he gasps.

“We’re just two slightly lubricated visitors admirin’ the work of an artiste,” Lon comments.

Druce backs further away; his unblinking stare still riveted on the Akers.

“You know those two yahoos?” Cy asks.

“Yes, they know me, and I know what they want to do to me. You have to get them out of town before they kill me.”

“He’s been samplin’ the spiked punch,” Lon says.

“They haven’t done anything,” Cy notes.

“Not yet! When they do, my death will be on you, Marshal!” Druce shouts, hurrying off.

“Dramatic, ain’t he?” Lon comments.

                                               ***

The following morning, Druce bursts through the jail’s door, shoving a piece of paper in Cy’s face.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

Cy gives the page a cursory glance, passing it onto Van.

“Looks like a wanted poster with your name on it. Something you’re not telling us, Mayor?”

“Did you read it?”

“Yep. It says you’re a war criminal. The drawing is a nice likeness of you, too.”

“I’m not a war criminal!”

“Well, somebody thinks you are.”

“There’s a dozen of them posted up and down Main Street. My birthday celebration, my name, my reputation are in question.”

Cy narrows his gaze. “Just what did you do during the war, Mayor?”

Druce clears his throat. “I…uh… was behind the lines.”

“He had it easy while you n’ me was takin’ pot shots at each other,” Van jokes.

“It was never easy! The filth, the rats, the lack of supplies… Watching Natchez burn.”

“You was stationed in Natchez?” Van asks.

“I ran the prisoner of war camp there.”

Van clenches his fists, his breath exiting in fitful bursts.

“You sick son of a gun! You took pleasure outta starvin’ and torturin’ soldiers! The Yankees took their anger out on us because of the way you mistreated their men. You’re a disgrace to the uniform of the Confederate States Army, you murderin’ cur!”

“Why don’t you go take down the fake wanted posters, Van,” Cy suggests.

“Why? They’re true!”

“Git.”

Van spits at Druce’s feet, storming out.

“He fought on your side, Druce. I can’t imagine how the Union prisoners feel about you. What went on in that camp?”

“We had no water supply, no food, unsanitary conditions, and twenty thousand prisoners. Most of them died from scurvy and dysentery. In the summer, we lost a hundred a day to the heat. When one man died, another took his rotting rags. The prisoners were always trying to escape, so we had to resort to extreme methods. Anyone who got too close to the fence was shot. The boys, the drummer boys, they weren’t going to survive anyway. So…”

“You murdered them?”

“I don’t expect you to understand, Cy. It was war. When the armistice was signed, I was tried for war crimes and acquitted. Jack and Lon Aker were two of the prisoners who attended the trial. They swore vengeance… That I’d pay someday.”

“And they’re here to collect.”

                                               ***

Standing at the side of the podium, Cy elbows Van, pointing at the Aker gang.

The gang has gathered near the front of the podium so Druce can see their taunting smiles.

Druce pecks Opal on the cheek. Shuffling papers, he begins his speech.

“…The war against the states was hell…,” he says, looking at Jack and Lon Aker. “Each of us lucky to survive left a piece of us behind on some battlefield, some hospital…”

“Or some prison!” Jack shouts.

“…I still wake up in a cold sweat at nights, yelling the names of the Union soldiers I had to kill…”

“You mean murder!” Jack grumbles.

“He doesn’t have nightmares. He gave them to us!” Lon adds.

An eerie silence permeates as the crowd waits for a stunned Druce to respond.

The crowd jumps, then laughs as a succession of firecrackers explode near the stand.

Druce cringes behind the podium. Realizing he’s unharmed, he slowly rises, grinning nervously.

Opal lies on the floor next to him, writhing in pain.

                                               ***

“Who would want to hurt my wife?” Druce asks.

“Not Opal. You,” Cy grimly declares. “She was lucky, though. The bullet passed right through her arm.”

“You think they were aiming for me?”

“After what you told me? Yep. We found a rifle across the street in a second-floor room of the hotel. It’s a standard Henry rifle used by soldiers. It could be owned by any one of us. Including the Akers.”

“I remember seeing Aker and his boys. They were standing in front of us,” Druce says.

“Looks like you got more enemies than we thought, Mayor.”

                                               ***

That evening, Druce sways as he sits atop the bar, his storytelling embellished by the strength of the liquor he’s been drinking for the past several hours.

“It’s about time the Mayor ran outta yarns and outta steam,” Van says. “I’m tired of babysittin' this blatherskite and havin’ to stick him like a leach.”

Cy scans the room. “It’s the last night of his celebration. He’s going to suck as much flavor out of the moment as he can. I just wish he’d picked a less public place to do it in.”

“…We had those blue bellies trapped in the valley. It was a turkey shoot…”

The doors swing open. Jack Aker and his gang saunter in.

Jack acknowledges Painter with a nod, quickly moving on.

The Tremaine brothers thread through the crowd, moving to Druce’s right side, while the Aker brothers gather left of the Mayor.

“… I could hear ‘Dixie’ coming from the band…”

“How could you hear it above the screams of the prisoners you tortured?” Lon asks.

“Oh, he could, brother,” Jack says. “Because they don’t write songs about cowards. Toodle-oo, Mayor!”

A gunshot echoes throughout the barroom. A bullet buries itself in the pillar next to Druce’s head.

Cy pushes Druce off the bar. Druce falls behind it, curling up underneath it, out of everyone’s sight.

Cy notices that none of the Akers have drawn their weapons.

Growling like a mad beast, Belly swats everyone in his path aside. Grabbing Cy, he puts him in a bear hug, crushing him.

“Let me go, Belly!”

“Sure, when you’re dead!”

Reaching for his gun, Cy jams it between them, firing three shots.

Belly releases him. Backing away, he laughs at the blood spurting from his chest as he falls face first.

Jack and Lon reach for their guns.

Lon fires at Cy. His two bullets strike Les Tremaine, killing him as he runs in front of Cy in an attempt to escape. Stanley Tremaine reaches for his Bowie knife, intent on throwing it at Cy, but a sea of panicking customers knocks the blade from his hand, and he’s pushed out the back door. He doesn’t return.

Cy fires two shots at Lon, who drops his gun, falling backward.

Hiding behind a pillar, Jack hits Van on the forearm with a slug from his Colt. Cradling his shotgun, Van returns fire, splintering the pillar. A second blast blows a now exposed Jack off his feet.

                                               ***

Druce greets Cy on the street the next morning. They watch a crew of men pulling down banners and sweeping up the celebration’s confetti.

“How’s Aker?”

“Gut shot and about ready to join his brothers in the mortuary. I’m going to Doc’s office to see him now.”

“I hate to owe a Yankee, but thank you, Marshal. It’s nice not to have to look over my shoulder anymore. I’m so happy, I think I’ll have that reprobate Painter paint my portrait. Toodle-oo.”

                                               ***

Jack grabs Cy’s hand as the pain seers through his body.

“…You know what I regret most? That a Reb finished me…”

“You carried the pain of being in Ottentail’s prison for ten years. Why try to kill Druce now, Jack?”

“We were paid to create a ruckus during the Mayor’s speech…  The man who hired us decided he was going to kill Ottentail… He shot Ottentail’s wife by mistake… Then, he wanted to kill Ottentail while he was drunk in the saloon. He missed again. Everybody, including you, thought me or one of my brothers had pulled the trigger, so Belly decided to act first... He should have left the killing to us…”

“Who hired you?”

Jack wheezes heavily.

“… A broken man… He was a prisoner with Lon and me in Natchez. He was a clean-cut, handsome kid, a drummer boy during the war… Never even shot a gun…I almost didn’t recognize him when he rode into our camp last year, all thin and grizzled… Ottentail had made an example of him… Whipped him, stuck a hot poker in his eye, and left him for dead. The Rebs buried him alive outside of the camp. He dug his way out and crawled back to the Union line...”

The loud report of a shotgun blast sounds in the street.

Opal’s scream sends Cy scrambling to the window.

“Help! Painter just shot my husband!”