Twelve Dead Men Page 11

  Severs grunted. “Yeah, I reckon. Didn’t know about that part of it. He come to have a saddle made?”

  Carhart set aside the awl he’d been using and frowned. “I ain’t sure it’s any of your business what the marshal wanted.”

  “Hell, no need to get proddy. We were just curious, is all.”

  “Because you think it might’ve been about that no-good friend of yours?”

  “Hey—” Merritt began.

  Severs silenced him with an uplifted hand, then turned to Carhart and went on. “We just want to make sure justice is done.”

  The saddle maker snorted. “Justice’ll be done, all right. It’ll be done when Pete McLaren’s danglin’ from a hang rope!”

  Merritt wanted to respond angrily again, but Severs hurried on. “They’re trying to railroad him. Pete never did anything to warrant hanging.”

  “The hell he didn’t!” Carhart said with a disgusted snort. “Where have you been? He shot down Marshal Dixon and one of those gals from Muller’s saloon in cold blood!”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “It sure as hell is,” Carhart insisted. “I seen it happen with my own eyes last night, and like I told Miguel, I’ll be more ’n happy to stand up in court and say so. I ain’t the only one, neither. He’s got plenty of witnesses who’ll send McLaren right up the steps of the gallows!”

  “Like who?”

  A canny look appeared in Carhart’s rheumy old eyes. “Hold on here. You fellas are McLaren’s friends. I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you.”

  Merritt took a step toward him. “Perry asked you a question, you old pelican.”

  Carhart grabbed the awl again and stood up. He took a quick step back from the bench and held the sharp-pointed tool in front of him in a defensive posture. “Hold on there—”

  “Take it easy, Lew.” Severs gripped Merritt’s arm. “There’s no need for things to get nasty here.”

  “I don’t like the way this old man’s talkin’,” Merritt responded sullenly.

  “You see how it is, Carhart,” Severs said with a shrug. “We don’t like it when people go spreading lies about our partner. If you know anybody who’s thinking about doing the same thing, you might want to let them know it’s not a good idea.”

  Carhart swallowed. “You can’t come in here and threaten me—”

  “I’m not threatening anybody. I’m just saying . . . anybody who goes into court and tells lies after swearing to tell the truth . . . well, they’ve got to expect some trouble, now don’t they?”

  “You get outta my shop,” Carhart said as he gestured with the awl.

  “Sure, we’re going. You just remember what I said.”

  Merritt snarled at Carhart as Severs tugged him toward the door. The little bell jingled above their heads again as they went out, but it didn’t sound so merry.

  “I don’t know why you didn’t let me teach that old varmint a lesson,” Merritt said. “He’s gonna testify against Pete.”

  “Is he?” Severs chuckled. “He looked a mite spooked to me, Lew. I’ve got a hunch his memory might get bad over the weekend. He’ll warn his friends that they better have memory problems, too. Comes time for the trial . . . if there is a trial . . . those fellas trying to hang Pete may discover they don’t have anybody on their side after all.”

  Merritt frowned. “What do you mean, if there is a trial?”

  “Just something else I was thinking about. This is just the start of things, Lew . . . and there’s no telling what might happen before it’s all over.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Because Marshal Hoyt Dixon’s funeral was that afternoon, Chance was at the marshal’s office and jail, keeping an eye on things. He’d never cared for funerals and had said he would stand guard. With most of the citizens turning out for the well-liked lawman’s funeral, it would be a good time for Pete McLaren’s friends to attempt a jailbreak, if they were going to. A couple volunteers were with Chance, including one of the bartenders from the Melodian. All three men had loaded shotguns, making it unlikely anybody could reach McLaren and set him free.

  At the cemetery on a windswept hill overlooking the town, Ace stood among the mourners before the service began.

  Crackerjack Sawyer pointed to a single pine tree next to the burial ground’s entrance and told him, “That’s the tree they named the settlement after. If you look around the hills, you can see hundreds of pines, but that’s the only one on this hill.”

  “I wondered a little about that. This area isn’t exactly short on pine trees.” Ace paused. “So it went from being called Buzzard’s Roost to being named after a cemetery.”

  “Does seem to be a little hard to get away from death, don’t it? But if you stop and think about it, that’s the way it is everywhere you go, no matter what sort of happy names folks like to slap on things.”

  Ace couldn’t argue with that.

  A hearse drawn by the customary six black horses creaked through the gates of the cemetery. Miguel Soriano walked along behind it, as did Norm Sutherland. Doc Bellem had advised Sutherland to stay in bed and rest, but he’d refused. He had to pay his last respects to the man who had been his boss and his longtime friend.

  Dixon had no family in Lone Pine. He had been a tight-lipped man in some respects, and in fact no one really knew if he had relatives elsewhere. It would come as no surprise if he didn’t. Star packers who drifted from town to town bringing law and order to the frontier often never settled down and had families. But he had plenty of friends, as the crowd at the cemetery attested.

  The hearse came to a stop next to an open grave. Pallbearers took the simple casket from the vehicle and lowered it into its final resting place. A minister from one of the local churches intoned a short sermon and a long prayer as clouds drifted in front of the sun and then moved on, making the light come and go in irregular patterns.

  When the service was over, the crowd broke up quickly and most of the mourners walked out through the cemetery gates to head back down the hill.

  Ace stayed where he was, prompting Crackerjack to ask, “Ain’t you goin’ back to town?”

  “There’s another funeral,” Ace said.

  Crackerjack frowned. “You mean for that saloon gal?”

  “That’s right.” Ace looked toward the other side of the cemetery where a plain wagon with an even plainer coffin already in the back of it stood. A mound of dirt marked the location of another grave over there.

  “Most folks ain’t gonna stand around and offer up prayers for a gal like that.”

  “She was still a human being,” Ace said.

  “Yeah, but if she hadn’t let McLaren out of jail, Marshal Dixon wouldn’t be dead right now. Of course, neither would she, but folks are still gonna hold that against her.”

  “I suppose they have a right to do that, but I still think the decent thing to do is to see that she’s laid to rest properly.”

  “Oh, well . . . hell. I reckon I can go along with you. Anybody wants their horse from the stable, they can wait a few minutes.”

  The two of them walked across the cemetery. It appeared the only other mourners who had remained behind after the marshal’s funeral was over were Hank Muller, Fontana Dupree, and some of the bartenders and serving girls from the Melodian.

  As Ace and Crackerjack stepped up beside the little group, Muller looked over and gave them a curt nod. Fontana smiled slightly, and Ace could tell she was grateful someone else had shown up.

  The same preacher performed this service, which was shorter than Dixon’s had been. The sky pilot talked about all sins being washed clean and asked the Lord in His infinite wisdom to have mercy on the soul of Dorothy Redding. A few of the saloon girls sniffled. Not many people had shown them mercy in their lives, and they probably didn’t hold out much hope of receiving any from the Good Lord, either.

  While the service was going on, the grave diggers had already gone to work on the other side of the cemetery. The regular thuds of dirt fall
ing on Dixon’s coffin made a grim counterpoint to the preacher’s words.

  When the service was over, Fontana went over to Ace and asked, “Where’s your brother, Mr. Jensen?”

  “He stayed at the jail to make sure nobody tried anything else,” Ace explained. “We’re helping out Marshal Soriano. Sort of unofficial deputies, I guess you’d say.”

  Hank Muller overheard that. “You and your brother have been in the thick of things ever since you rode into town, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah. Somehow it usually seems to work out that way,” Ace said with a rueful smile. “I’m not sure why, since really we’re the peaceable sort.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve been around,” Fontana said. “Otherwise the trouble might have been even worse.”

  “Stop by the Melodian anytime you get a chance,” Muller added. “I’ll buy you a beer. You and your brother both.”

  “We’ll be there,” Ace said. “I know Chance is eager to hear you sing again, Miss Dupree.”

  “It’s hard to think about singing in a place like this,” Fontana said with a glance over her shoulder as they walked out of the cemetery. “But I guess death is a reminder that life goes on for those left behind, isn’t it?”

  Ace gave a grim smile. “You could look at it that way.”

  * * *

  Miguel Soriano went back to his rented room after the funeral, pulled off his boots, and stretched out on the bed. Normally he would have undressed, but he was too tired. Everything that had happened, culminating with the emotional ordeal of Marshal Hoyt Dixon’s funeral, had sapped Miguel’s strength and left him exhausted. When he closed his eyes, he felt like he could sleep for a week.

  He fell asleep right away, but a little more than four hours later, he was wide awake again.

  The human body—and mind—were creatures of habit. As the night deputy, Miguel was always up and around at that time, getting a good start on what was for him, his day’s work.

  Sleeping at that time of day just seemed wrong. He stayed on the bed for awhile, trying to doze off again, but eventually he gave up.

  His mind was just too full to let him relax. Memories cascaded through his head like a waterfall.

  * * *

  A carefree vaquero, Miguel rode with the wrong crowd. He never rustled any stock himself but was pretty sure some of his friends did. Sooner or later, on some moonless night, he would probably find himself riding toward the border, driving cattle that didn’t belong to him.

  Hoyt Dixon stepped in, offering Miguel the job of night deputy when old Cyrus Trammell handed in his badge and moved to El Paso to live out his remaining years with his daughter and her family.

  Miguel asked the marshal, “Why in the world would you extend such an offer?”

  Dixon grinned.

  “I figure I can either hire you now or hang you or shoot you in a couple of years. I’d rather hire you.”

  Happy for the opportunity, Miguel took the job and started by making the evening rounds of the town, checking in with the proprietors of the businesses that were still open, making sure the doors were locked at the ones that were closed. Marshal Dixon had taught him it was important for the law to have a visible presence around the settlement.

  Miguel’s thoughts returned to the current time. Since that day, he had done his best not to let Dixon down, but the marshal was dead, and Miguel wasn’t the night deputy anymore. He was the acting marshal. All the members of the town council were in agreement on that. They were counting on him to maintain law and order in Lone Pine. It was the biggest responsibility he had ever had.

  Even though he didn’t blame himself for what had happened—he’d been doing his job when Pete McLaren escaped—the whole thing still gnawed at his guts like a hungry coyote.

  * * *

  Donald Barr ran one of the general mercantiles in Lone Pine and lived with his wife Eunice and two daughters, Millie and Deborah in a pleasant but not too fancy house on the edge of the settlement. He was in his forties and was regarded as a decent, unassuming man who conducted his business fairly and could be found every Sunday morning in one of the pews of the Methodist Church, singing hymns along with his family.

  Before Sunday morning came Saturday night, and that was when Donald and Eunice got up to mischief, as Eunice liked to call it. None of her friends in town knew that she had a bit of an adventurous streak when it came to certain matters, but Donald was well aware of it and was very appreciative of it.

  However, that mischief had barely gotten under way when a hard metal ring pressed against the back of Donald’s head and a voice whispered hoarsely, “Don’t move.”

  Donald had been moving quite energetically, but he froze. Even though he’d never had a gun barrel shoved against his head, he realized that was what he felt. He choked out, “Oh, God. Please don’t kill me.”

  “Donald?” Eunice said, her voice somewhat muffled by her position. “What is—”

  “Be quiet, lady,” the intruder rasped, a little louder.

  Eunice let out a startled cry.

  “Don’t you move, either.”

  She started to jerk away from Donald, but he grabbed her and held her tightly. If she spooked the man with the gun, the weapon’s hammer might fall and then Donald’s brains would be splattered all over the wall above the headboard.

  “Eunice, be still.” Donald’s pulse had been racing before the interruption, but now his heart was pounding so much it felt like it was about to burst out of his chest.

  “You’re a smart man, Barr,” the unseen man said. “I reckon this is as embarrassing as all get-out, but it’s better to be embarrassed than to be dead, right?” The gun barrel prodded hard. “I said, right?”

  “R-right,” Donald managed to get out.

  “You’re smart enough to know when to listen to good advice, aren’t you?”

  “I . . . I hope so.”

  “I do, too, for your sake, and for the sake of your wife and those little girls of yours.”

  Eunice couldn’t restrain herself. She cried, “You leave my daughters alone, you monster!”

  “I’m not gonna bother them. I give you my word on that. My friend, though, who’s right down the hall outside the door of their room . . . well, I can’t speak for him.”

  “What . . . what do you want?” Donald asked.

  Instead of answering the question directly, the intruder said, “Your friend Royal Carhart came to see you today, didn’t he? Came to talk about Pete McLaren?”

  “I—I—.”

  “The way I hear it, you and Carhart and some others have been spreading lies about McLaren, telling that Mex deputy you saw him shoot Marshal Dixon and that gal from the Melodian, and that’s just not true. McLaren was out on the boardwalk when it happened, but there’s no telling exactly where the shots came from, is there? Somebody else could’ve killed those folks. And you ought to know that better than anybody else, because your store is right across the street from the marshal’s office and you were still open last night when it happened. I hear tell you were looking out the window when the shooting started, and even you couldn’t tell where the bullets came from that killed Dixon and the girl. Isn’t that right?”

  Before the storekeeper could respond, his wife exclaimed, “For God’s sake, Donald, agree with him!”

  “But—but—”

  “How old are those gals of yours?” the intruder whispered. “Fourteen and twelve, right? Something like that?”

  Donald Barr felt sick with fear, but at the same time he was angry. “If you touch them, I’ll—”

  The gun barrel was pulled away from his head, but an instant later something slammed into his skull with enough force to stun him and knock him forward onto his wife. Eunice let out a muffled scream and tried to writhe out from under him.

  She stopped as a dark figure loomed over her and a hand caught hold of her long brown hair, which she had taken down from its braids before she and Donald went to bed. A gasp of pain escaped from her lips as
the man pulled her head back and nudged the gun barrel under her chin.

  “Your husband’s not hurt bad,” the man said. “He’ll come to in a few minutes. When he does, you tell him he’d better do the smart thing or we’ll be back. And we won’t treat you . . . or your girls . . . so gentle next time. The same thing’ll happen if you go running to that greaser deputy, too.” The man let go of Eunice’s hair and ran his hand along her body, causing her to shudder.

  She closed her eyes and clutched at her husband’s senseless form. Donald was breathing, so she knew he was still alive.

  Footsteps sounded quietly on the floor. The bedroom door closed behind the intruder as he left. Eunice stayed where she was for several long moments before her concern for her children made her get up and reach for a robe.

  There would be no more mischief tonight.

  Not the enjoyable kind, anyway.

  * * *

  In the thickest, most impenetrable shadows under the trees about a hundred yards away from the Barr house, Severs and Merritt paused and pulled down the bandannas that had covered the lower halves of their faces. They hadn’t said anything after leaving the house.

  Finally, Merritt asked, “You reckon they understood?”

  “The woman did,” Severs said. “I’m not so sure about Barr, but hell, it’s better that she got the message. She’ll make sure her husband does what he’s told.”

  “You threatened to hurt the girls?”

  “Yeah. I had to.”

  Merritt took a deep breath, then said, “I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I.” Severs knew out on the frontier, only the lowest of the low would molest a respectable woman or even threaten to do such a thing. “But I don’t want to see Pete hang, either.”

  “No, I reckon not. We gonna pay a visit to any of the others?”

  After leaving Royal Carhart’s saddle shop, Severs and Merritt had kept an eye on the place. Just as Severs expected, Carhart had closed up the business and hurried around town for a while, stopping to talk to Donald Barr and several other merchants whose stores would have been open at the time of the shootings. Severs had figured those were the men Miguel Soriano was lining up to testify against McLaren.