A Dangerous Man Page 13

  “The body snatchers know that it’s because of you I’m forced to look for Crow Wallace and by doing so, I’ve upset their applecart. You’ve become a pest and a target.”

  Posey gave a little start of alarm. “I never thought of that. Are we really in the midst of Resurrectionists, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “Doc Harvey says Apaches dug up them bodies, to scare the town.”

  “Is that possible?” Posey asked, eagerly anticipating the Yes that would ease his fears.

  “No,” Sullivan said. “Or at least, very unlikely.”

  Feeling faint, the Butterfield man sat on a corner of the bed and tried to disappear inside his fur coat. “Oh, what do we do, Mr. Sullivan? My poor lady wife would be so upset if she knew my life is in such peril.”

  “Here’s what we do . . . um . . .”

  “Ebenezer.”

  “Yeah, now listen up.”

  Sullivan told him.

  For long moments, Posey sat stunned, then he let out a sharp cry of anguish and shook his head vigorously.

  “I won’t do it, Mr. Sullivan. “I-will-not-do-it.”

  “Suit yourself. Make yourself a target.”

  “Suppose I’m slain? I won’t even be able to rest easy in my grave,” the little man wailed.

  Sullivan disagreed. “Not if we catch the body snatchers. Then, if you get shot, you’ll sleep like a baby.”

  It was Longley’s decision that Booker Tate would be too nervous to properly go a-courtin’ until he had imbibed a few drinks.

  Tate, though not a man known for his high-strung nature, readily agreed. The thought of facing pretty Miss Lisa York with molasses candy in hand and his heart on his sleeve did make him feel a little uneasy.

  He didn’t want to scare the girl . . . at least not until their wedding night.

  With two hours to go before Tate needed to get gussied up, he and Longley crossed the street to the saloon. For the moment, the snow had stopped, but the wind was bitter cold. Apart from the lighted saloon and restaurant the buildings were lost in darkness, the stores shuttered early for lack of hardy customers.

  Longley, a swaggering man made even more arrogant by the town’s lack of action following his killing of Tom Archer, stepped up to the bar on the brag. After ordering whiskey, he turned to the patrons and slapped Tate on the back. “Boys, meet the future husband of Miss Lisa York. We’re doing a little celebrating this evening.”

  If Longley expected a cheer, he didn’t get it.

  The dozen or so men in the saloon sat in stony silence. Behind the bar, Buck Bowman scowled and slammed down a polished glass with considerable force.

  Longley smiled. “Booker, it seems that these gentlemen don’t think you’re a fit match for the mayor’s daughter.”

  “Who cares what they think.” Tate looked around with lowered brows like a great, shaggy buffalo bull. He smelled like one, too. “Anybody says Lisa York ain’t gonna be my bride, step right up here and say it to my face.” He swept his mackinaw away from his gun. “I got an answer for ye right here.”

  “There will be no gunplay in here tonight.” Bowman put a shotgun on the bar. “Here are my bona fides.”

  Longley smiled and decided to smooth things over. “Booker is just a little overexcited about his courtship, Sheriff. He means no harm.”

  “Then rein in your dog, Longley,” Bowman said, a tough, unyielding man. “Don’t make me do it for you.”

  “Drink up, Booker,” Longley said, grinning. “I don’t think we’re among friends this evening.”

  “I’m not your friend, Longley and never was.”

  That came from a tall, lanky man who stood at the table where he and another fellow, just as tall and even lankier, were nursing five-cent beers.

  Longley turned from the bar and looked the standing man over. He and his companion were obviously punchers, laid off by the winter and riding the grub line. Both wore threadbare mackinaws and scuffed shotgun chaps. They were gaunt and needed a shave and their last six meals.

  Longley shrugged out of his coat and let it puddle on the ground around his feet. His guns bulged under his black frockcoat. “When riffraff and low persons address me, they call me, sir.”

  “Easy, boys,” Bowman said. “I told you, I want no trouble here.”

  “There will be none, Sheriff,” Longley said. “Unless these men call it.”

  As though he hadn’t heard, the lanky puncher said, “I recognize you, Longley. You got a two thousand dollar reward on you for a scattergun killing down to Bastrop County, Texas.”

  Longley didn’t move. “And? State your intentions and make them plain.”

  “We’re taking you back. Is that plain enough?”

  As the other man at the table got to his feet, a chair scraped on the timber floor, a significant sound in the silence.

  Longley shook his head as though more in sorrow than anger. A pair of starving, fifty cents a day punchers determined to make a score were almost beneath his dignity. Idiots. They hadn’t even cleared their guns. Just a couple of bounty hunter wannabes on a short trail to nowhere.

  “Longley,” Bowman said. “Back away from this. You men sit down, finish your beer, and then ride. You’re overmatched here.”

  The lanky man, driven by desperation and a desire to get it over with now that he’d opened the ball, made the worst and last mistake of his life.

  He went for his gun.

  Longley drew in an easy, almost languid motion and put a bullet into the puncher’s belly.

  Despite a death wound, the lanky man had sand. He took the hit and staggered back. As his back hit the wall, he raised his revolver and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  As Longley had half-expected, damp powder and an ancient cap refused to ignite. Professional gunmen took exquisite care of their weapons. Cowpunchers seldom did.

  Longley fired again and the puncher dropped.

  The other man, younger and scared, yelled, “I’m out of it!”

  “No, you ain’t.” Taking a split second longer than he normally would in a gunfight, Longley raised his Colt to eye level and shot the youngster smack in the middle of his forehead.

  Spinning on Bowman, Longley didn’t watch the man fall. “Don’t try it!” he yelled. “I can drop you.”

  Buck Bowman was game but didn’t dare make a try for the shotgun.

  “Get the scattergun, Booker,” Longley said.

  Grinning, Booker lifted the gun from the bar.

  “Damn you, Longley,” Bowman said. “I’m sick of burying your dead.”

  “Then give your damned star back.”

  Bowman shook his head. “You murdered those men. You knew they’d no chance with you.”

  “Pity they didn’t know it, huh, Buck?”

  Bowman was beside himself with anger. He couldn’t pin the killing of the older puncher on Longley. The man had drawn down on him first, or tried to. The second man said he was out of it, but he wore a gun and a smart lawyer could convince a jury that he was still a danger.

  “You planning to arrest me, Sheriff?” Longley hadn’t holstered his gun.

  Bowman felt a sense of defeat and a gut-sick weariness. “Get the hell out of here, Longley. And leave the shotgun.”

  “We’re going, Buck. Me and Booker won’t stay where we’re not wanted. Oh, and you can have the Greener back. Give it to him, Booker.”

  Longley waited until Tate put the scattergun on the bar, then reached into his pocket and threw a handful of coins onto the floor. “Bury them, Bowman.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Bill Longley, I Presume?”

  “Oh, my God! Where is the shooting?” Ebenezer Posey stared at Tam Sullivan in alarm.

  “Over to the saloon, sounds like. And I’m willing to bet Bill Longley is involved.”

  “More bodies to steal.” Posey’s little head poking out of his coat collar made him look like a turtle.

  “What did you say, Ephraim?” Sullivan asked.

  “Ebe
nezer. I said, ‘more bodies to steal.’”

  “Damn. You’re right.” Sullivan was lost in thought for a moment. “Come on. We’ll head over to the saloon and see what happened.”

  “Not me. I’ll stay right here.”

  “Yes, you. The Hero of Comanche Crossing Trail can’t hide in his hotel room when he might be needed to grab his gun and get his work in.”

  “I don’t have a gun and I’m not a hero.”

  “Sure you are . . . um . . . Ebenezer. Now help me into my coat.”

  Sullivan buckled on his gun belt and Posey helped him into his coat.

  “This garment is bloody,” the little man said.

  “That’s what happens when a man gets shot in the shoulder.” Sullivan smiled. “Damn, if everything pans out the way I figure it will, I think we might have a way of getting closer to ol’ Crow’s body.”

  “Mr. Sullivan, I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Posey said.

  “I probably am. Now let’s go see who got himself shot. Hell, it might be ol’ Bill himself. There’s a prime body for cutting up if ever I saw one.”

  The bodies of the two dead men were being carried out of the saloon when Sullivan and Posey arrived. They stood back to let the sad procession pass.

  Inside, a swamper mopped up blood, staring intently at his pink-stained mop as though it was a job that required all of his concentration. There was no sign of Montana Maine and Sullivan felt oddly disappointed.

  Buck Bowman stood behind the bar, his earlier anger replaced by a look of unease and apprehension, like a man staring at a passing rattlesnake. He looked at Sullivan, then at the bloodstain on his coat, but said nothing.

  “Bill Longley, I presume?” the bounty hunter asked.

  Bowman nodded. “You presume right.”

  “Fair fight?”

  “Longley’s lawyer would sum it up that way.”

  “What happened?” Sullivan asked.

  Posey sat in a chair, his face ashen.

  “Two broke punchers recognized Longley and figured it would be a good idea to collect the two thousand reward on his head,” Bowman said.

  “Two thousand, they said?” Sullivan asked, interested. He might be able to turn a profit on this trip after all.

  “Yeah, that’s what they said, a couple drovers who probably only used the barrels of their guns to string fence wire and never shot at a man in their lives.” Bowman set a couple of glasses on the bar and poured whiskey into each. As he recorked the bottle, he said, “The older of the two drew down on Longley, or tried to. His gun never cleared leather. Longley gut shot him, then put a second ball between his eyes.”

  “And the younger one, what was he doing all that time?”

  “He said he was out of it, but Longley shot him anyhow . . . in keeping with the merry spirit of the evening, like.”

  “Was the man armed?”

  “Yup. He wore a gun.”

  Sullivan shrugged. “Self-defense. Not guilty and ol’ Bill walks free as a bird.”

  Bowman nodded in agreement. “That’s how I see it.”

  “Blood and guts everywhere, Buck,” the swamper said, pausing in his work. He was a small, narrow man with mean eyes.

  “Do what you can, Lem,” Bowman said. “Then spread fresh sawdust all over that area.”

  The swamper nodded and went back to his task.

  Only a few men remained in the saloon. One of them sat close to the cherry-red, potbellied stove. “It was murder pure and simple. If I was on a jury, I wouldn’t let that damned killer walk. He shot down a couple rubes.”

  “A rube with a gun can still kill you,” Sullivan said. “Look what happened to Hickok.”

  “Well, mister, you’re right about that I suppose,” the man said. “But I still call it murder.”

  Sullivan picked up one of the whiskey glasses and handed it to Posey.

  “I just couldn’t. I feel sick. I can smell blood. It’s like iodine and raw iron all mixed together.”

  “Drink it, Ebenezer. It will do you good. Calm your nerves. You’ll be fighting fit in a moment.” Sullivan shoved the glass into Posey’s trembling hand despite the little man’s further protestations.

  The bounty hunter stepped back to the bar. “Bowman, you’ve been around. I got a question about that time Bill got himself half-hung.”

  “Yeah, what about it.”

  “The story is that his rescuer bit off the rope around his neck.”

  “It’s a big windy,” the big barman said. “Longley wanted his rescue to sound more—what do you call it?—yeah, glamorous. He made up a yarn that his sweetheart did it, that she was so devoted to him she chewed the hemp apart. The truth is the vigilantes bungled the job. After they left, his friends cut him down with a knife. That half-hanging damn near killed Longley, but there are a lot of lively lads who’d still be above ground today if it had took, including them two he just done for.”

  “You think a woman could have been involved?” Sullivan wondered.

  “Why not? Longley has a lot of kin down Karnes County, Texas, way.” Bowman raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so interested in a woman being there?”

  “No reason.” Sullivan shrugged. “Idle curiosity, I guess.” It was much more than that, but he didn’t see any purpose in tipping his hand.

  “Who shot you, Sullivan?” Bowman pointed to his own shoulder. “There.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Longley?”

  “I don’t think so. I got hit by a big gun, not a .44-40.”

  Bowman looked at the position of the bloodstain. “I’m surprised you’re able to walk.”

  “Bullet hit my cigar case,” Sullivan said. “Saved my life.”

  “Good excuse to keep up the smoking habit.” Bowman smiled.

  “Ain’t it, though?”

  “I’ll look into it,” the sheriff said. “The attempted murder, I mean.”

  Sullivan nodded. “And so will I.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Search for a Cadaver

  When Tam Sullivan and Ebenezer Posey left the saloon, snow was falling again. The night was dank, dark, and smelled of the dead. It was not yet seven, so Booker Tate wasn’t on the porch dressed in his new finery.

  “Well, I’m to bed,” Posey said. “It’s been a long, wearisome day.”

  Sullivan grabbed the little man’s arm. “You’re staying with me. I may need you to identify Crow’s remains.”

  Posey jerked his arm away. “I’ve seen enough of bodies tonight, thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “We’ll stroll to the end of the boardwalk. First, I want to take a look at Lady Wainright’s house.”

  “Without me, I do assure you,” Posey said. “My adventures are—”

  Sullivan grabbed Posey by the back of his coat and marched him along the boards without saying a word.

  “I must protest, Mr. Sullivan. This is an outrage.”

  “Shh. Lady Wainright has a guard dog the size of a mountain lion, only with bigger teeth.”

  “You’ll get me killed, Mr. Sullivan, and Mrs. Posey will never forgive you.”

  “I’m sure she will in time,” Sullivan said facetiously.

  Posey let out a thin, terrified wail.

  To Sullivan’s surprise, the house was in darkness but for one light in the upper story, a bedroom presumably. There were no mud-splattered carriages at the door. The place looked oddly forlorn, as though it shrank away from the assault of the wind and snow.

  “Well?” Posey stood stock-still. “What now?”

  “Now we go to the doctor’s office,” Sullivan replied.

  “Why?” The Butterfield man was thoroughly alarmed.

  “See if we run into Crow Wallace.”

  “But he’s dead, or so you say,” Posey argued.

  “There may be enough of him left for you to identify,” Sullivan pointed out.

  “No, I’m going back to the hotel. Now unhand me this instant.”

  “Yo
u’re staying with me.” Sullivan shook the little man like a terrier with a rat. “The damned body snatching idea was all yours in the first place.” He all but dragged Posey away from Lady Wainright’s house and to Doctor Harvey’s office.

  It was a narrow storefront office wedged between a greengrocer and saddle shop. It’s only claim to grandeur was the gold lettered sign on the blacked-out window.

  PETER HARVEY, M. D.

  General Physician

  Sullivan had already learned that Harvey had a gingerbread house on the hill that he shared with his bride of just six months.

  “Pretty girl,” the man who’d sold him cigars and a new case had said. “If you like ’em small.”

  “I like them in all sizes,” Sullivan had answered.

  The man had grinned. “Then you obviously haven’t seen Montana Maine yet.”

  As Posey shivered on the boardwalk, Sullivan tried the office door. As he’d expected, it was locked. “We’ll go around the back, Ebenezer. Take a look-see.”

  “And get shot as burglars. I know we’ll get shot,” Posey whined.

  “The only people who do any shooting around Comanche Crossing are me and Bill Longley, and he’s otherwise engaged tonight.” Sullivan dragged the protesting Posey into the pitch-black depths of the narrow alley next to the saddle store.

  Ahead of them a bottle clinked. Sullivan froze and Posey bumped into him, crying out in alarm.

  “Shh.” Sullivan said. “I swear, you’re loud enough to be heard in the next county.”

  “What was that?” In the gloom, Posey’s eyes were round as coins.

  “Kitty cat,” Sullivan whispered.

  A moment later, a tiny calico strolled past and ignored them with practiced feline aloofness.

  “Damned cat,” Sullivan muttered as his heartbeat returned to normal.

  “We should go back.” Posey grasped at straws. “It’s bad luck when a cat crosses your path.”

  “Nah, it has to be a black cat. That was a . . . some other kind of cat.”

  The alley opened up into a storage area, swept by wind gusts and a ragged lace of snow. Behind the saddle shop, the Butterfield stage was propped up on timbers, its front wheels missing.