Cold-Blooded Page 2

  For the first time since he’d arrived in Fort Worth Jess Casey felt bored. Yet he was uneasy, on edge, a jumpiness in him. As any lawman will confirm, when things get too quiet something real bad is about to happen. It always works that way. As surely as night follows day.

  * * *

  The prison wagons were twelve hours from Fort Worth when Herb Coffin called a halt to feed and water the prisoners. Around the wagons stretched a vast expanse of hilly grasslands broken up by mesquite, stands of wild oak at the higher elevations and sumac and bois d’arc along the creek bottoms.

  Including the drivers, Coffin had six guards up on the cage wagons and two more mounted. The guards deployed, carrying belt guns and rifles, before the cons were allowed to crawl out of the wagons and stretch their aching bodies. Breakfast was hard biscuit left over from the war and cold salt pork speckled with green mold.

  As he always did, Ford Talon sat away from the other prisoners, his face turned to the burning sun. He opened his eyes when a shadow blocked the rays and saw, haloed by dazzling sunlight, the mounted form of Herb Coffin.

  “This is where you get off, Major Talon,” he said. “It’s the end of the line.” Sweat ran down Coffin’s face and his smile was vicious. “You killed Thomson and Burt real easy, didn’t you? That’s because they were stupid enough to let you close. I won’t make that mistake.”

  “They died like the pigs they were, Coffin. And so will you,” Talon said.

  “Now that’s hardly likely, is it?” Coffin said. “I’m the man with the rifle.” He grinned. “You know, Thomson and Burt kicked him all right, but he didn’t die until I stomped his head to a pulp. So all was in vain, Major. You never avenged your brother at all.”

  Talon knew what Coffin wanted. The man was trying to goad him into an attack so he could justify the killing to the other guards. But Talon refused to play Coffin’s game. He sat where he was, the taste of rotten salt pork in his mouth and a heart full of hell.

  Coffin said, “Soon. If you got any prayers, say them, Johnny Reb.”

  He swung his horse away and left Talon to his thoughts.

  His brother Johnny had died at Lookout Point, kicked to death by Coffin and two other guards. He and Johnny had been posted to different cavalry regiments and he didn’t learn how Johnny had died until he talked with veterans who’d been locked up with him in that dreadful place.

  After that Talon took to the vengeance trail. He’d killed one of the guards, Burt, in a saloon in El Paso and had tracked another, Thomson, to Kansas, where he worked as a deputy sheriff. Talon had been wounded in that shooting scrape but had killed his man. Later he’d been arrested in Galveston and tried for murder and had been sentenced to thirty years in Huntsville. He’d not heard anything of the third guard, Herb Coffin, until the man was put in charge of the prison wagons. His experience with beaten, starved men had stood him in good stead.

  Now he’d caught up with Coffin but it looked as though the man was right. His vengeance trail ended right there. Talon was on the wrong side of forty and not afraid to die—he’d seen too much of that on a dozen battlefields—but the thought of Coffin going free made him sick to the stomach.

  * * *

  The prisoners were shoved and kicked back into the wagons, except for Talon and a man who’d died sometime in the night.

  “You men go on,” Coffin told the guards. “I’ll catch up after I’ve concluded my business here.”

  This brought cheers, jeers, and much grinning from the guards, but Coffin’s face was serious. Executing a man took some mental preparation.

  The wagons rolled across the long grass, then swung east, headed for the Trinity. Ford Talon glanced at the blue denim sky where the sun burned like a red-hot coin. Insects made their small music in the grass and high up a hawk glided like an angel, but its searching eyes were full of deviltry.

  Herb Coffin drew rein a few yards from where Talon sat. “Stand up and die like a man,” he said. His Colt was steady in his gun hand.

  Imagine a rough-bearded man dressed in rags, gaunt with hunger, black shadows under his eyes from the effects of the lash, iron shackles, and constant abuse from men who had no respect for him and considered him barely human. Imagine a man at the end of his tether who looked as though he no longer cared if he lived or died, and you have a pretty fair mental picture of Ford Talon that summer morning on the Texas plains.

  But a man like that has nothing to lose . . . a thing Herb Coffin should have taken into account.

  “Talon,” Coffin said, “I hate your guts, just as I hated your brother before you. See, the damned reb didn’t know when he was beat and I was glad when I killed him and I’ll be doubly glad when I kill you. But your dying will be slower than his because I’m gonna give it to you right in the belly. One shot in the guts and you’ll scream like a pig for hours, maybe days.”

  Coffin thumbed back the hammer of his Colt, the triple click loud in the morning quiet. He grinned. “Are you ready?”

  Talon noticed a subtle change in Coffin’s voice. The man was about to shoot. He made his move, already aware that it was a forlorn hope. From his sitting position he stood up and rushed, not Coffin, but his horse. He charged directly at the zebra dun’s head, screaming like a banshee. Startled, the horse jerked up his head and his front hooves left the ground. Coffin held on, his legs clamped around the barrel of his mount. He leaned out of the saddle and got off a shot. Talon took the hit and, driven on by pain, shrieked even louder. Scared now, the dun swung wildly to his left and Coffin, not an expert rider, grabbed for the horn. It was all the chance Talon needed. His arms extended, he threw himself at Coffin and tried to wrestle him from the saddle. But his strength was not what it once had been and Coffin brushed him off and slammed downward with the Colt. Talon saw the danger and moved his head at the last moment, but the gun barrel scraped cruelly down the right side of his head, tore his ear and thumped painfully onto his shoulder. Coffin tried to steady himself for another shot. But the dun would have none of it. Thoroughly frightened now, he reared and his rider fell backward out of the saddle.

  Coffin landed hard on his back, winding him, and Talon was on him like a starving wolf. Now was a time for tooth and claw. Both men wrestled for the gun in Coffin’s hand, but realizing he didn’t have the strength to best the man, Talon bit down on Coffin’s wrist and at the same time he jammed his thumbnail, long untrimmed, into the man’s left eye. Coffin screamed and tried to bring his revolver to bear, but Talon bit deeper into the man’s wrist, drawing blood. Afraid for his eye, Coffin grabbed Talon’s right forearm. But Talon, fighting for his life and nothing left inside him that was human, dug deeper until blood trickled onto Coffin’s cheekbone.

  Coffin shrieked and arched his back, bucking violently like a rodeo mustang. He threw Talon off, breaking his hold, but the Colt jerked out of his hand and thudded onto the grass. Talon made a dive for the revolver and beat Coffin to it by a fraction of a second. He rolled away from Coffin, putting distance between them, but the injured man staggered after him, blinded in one eye like an enraged Cyclops.

  Three years in Huntsville had not eroded Talon’s gun skill. Shooting from his back he put his first bullet into Coffin’s right knee, knowing it would drop him. Bone shattered and Coffin screamed. He didn’t fall, but stood where he was, unable to continue.

  “This is for Johnny,” Talon said.

  He pumped bullets in Coffin until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. The man still didn’t drop, but he swayed on his feet, stunned at the manner of his death. Then he crashed to the ground like a felled oak, groaned once and died.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ford Talon lay on his back and stared at the sky. He’d killed all three who had murdered his brother and it had left a hole in him that he did not know how he was going to fill. For years he’d been dedicated to his quest for vengeance, but now that was over there was nothing to take its place. He had neither wife nor child and no friends to be glad at his coming and sad at his leaving. Talon was a man alone and now what he feared was life itself.

  He got to his feet. The fight with Coffin had drained him and he felt tired beyond belief. The dead man offered no solace but stared at him with dull, accusing eyes. Despite his rags and bare feet, Talon could not bring himself to wear Coffin’s clothes. His hatred ran deep and the duds the man wore were unclean things.

  He did ransack Coffin’s pockets and found a wallet that contained more than two hundred dollars. He took the money and the man’s shoulder holster. He loaded the Colt with cartridges he found in the pocket of Coffin’s greatcoat and shoved the big revolver into the holster.

  The zebra dun grazed close and Talon had no problem grabbing his trailing reins. Smelling blood on him, the horse raised his head and white arcs showed in his eyes, but Talon had a way with animals of all kinds and his gentle hands on the dun’s muzzle reassured him and he calmed right down.

  Talon swung into the saddle and considered his options. To say they were limited was an understatement. Finally he summed things up by deciding that he needed a bath, shave, new duds and then a slap-up meal. He didn’t look into the crystal ball any further than that.

  The wallet with the two hundred dollars made a reassuring bulge in the waistband of his string-tied pants as he swung the dun and followed the wheel tracks of the prison wagons.

  * * *

  After Jess Casey had solved the mystery of the homicidal Dr. Sun, the grateful mayor of Fort Worth, Henry “Harry” Stout, had awarded Sheriff Casey a new gold badge that was now pinned to the front of his faded blue shirt. Later he’d also been presented an oak rocker that Stout claimed had been purchased “at great expense” by the city. As Jess had learned later, the chair was about to be thrown out along with other City Hall garbage bef
ore Stout rescued it.

  Jess now sat in the rocker on the boardwalk outside his office and watched Fort Worth go by, as he’d done many times before. The Acre’s sporting crowd was still abed and only the respectable element populated Main Street. This made the ragged, unkempt Ford Talon stand out all the more, especially since he rode a good horse.

  Jess was surprised when the man stopped and nodded. “Good-day to you, Sheriff,” he said. “I’m looking for a bathhouse.”

  Jess gave the man a quick once-over. He looked to be in his seventies but could be half that age. He was dirty, bearded, ragged and it seemed like he’d been at hard labor for years and had missed his last dozen meals. Yet he rode a five-hundred-dollar horse and the expensive Colt in his shoulder holster made an emphatic statement. His feet in the stirrups were bare, the toenails long and rimmed with black.

  “Passing through, are you?” Jess said, his eyes wary.

  “Don’t know,” the stranger said. “I’ll decide that after I get cleaned up and get some grub into myself.”

  Suspicious, Jess said, “Where you from, stranger?”

  Talon didn’t hesitate. “Huntsville State Penitentiary. Before that wherever my hunt for three killers took me. And before that I was an officer in the army of the Confederacy. Did I go back far enough?”

  “You came across, no doubt about that,” Jess said. “Are you on the scout?”

  “Those three men I told you about, I killed the last of them a day’s ride west of here. He was a Huntsville employee, so yes, I guess I’m on the scout. By the way, anybody ever tell you that you’re a ringer for General George Armstrong Custer?”

  “Yeah, too many times. No paper on you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What name do you go by?”

  “Talon. Ford Talon. A war ago they called me Major Talon.”

  Jess thought that over then said, “I’ll show you where the bathhouse is at. I’ve got nothing better to do this morning.” He rose from the rocker and said, “But first I want your pistol and the Winchester rifle from under your knee.”

  “I must look like a mighty desperate character, Sheriff,” Talon said, reluctantly shucking his guns.

  “You do,” Jess said. “Believe me, you do.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dirty Sammy’s Bathhouse and Sporting House was situated behind a cattle hide storage yard on Calhoun Street. It was a large white tent with a wooden sign above the entrance that pronounced:

  HOT BATH – 10 cents

  CLEAN WATER – 10 cents extry

  SOAP – 10 cents

  TOWEL – 20 cents

  CLEAN TOWEL – 10 cents extry

  BAD WHISKEY – 20 cents

  GOOD WHISKEY – $1

  This establishment is staffed by young ladies of gentle breeding.

  ~SAMUEL J. HOME, prop.

  Ford Talon looped his horse to the hitching rail and said, “Looks like this will suit me just fine.”

  “Any kind of water will suit you just fine,” Jess said.

  The moneyed sporting gents would not stir until after dark so the daytime staff of the bathhouse was composed of three ladies chosen for brawn rather than beauty.

  “This here gent wants the best of everything,” Jess said. “And shave him while you’re at it.”

  A muscular woman, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, stripped off Talon’s filthy rags and then sat him in a bathtub. Her two colleagues poured in water from steaming jugs, which made him jump. “Hell, that’s hot!” he yelled.

  “Cold won’t do you any good,” the dark-haired lady said. “Wait until the scrubbing with lye soap starts.”

  “Your best whiskey and cigars for the gent, ladies,” Jess said. “And leave the bottle.” Then to Talon, “Let me have your wallet.”

  “What for?” Talon was suspicious and it showed.

  “You want to get nice and clean then dress up in those stinking rags again?” Jess said.

  “I never thought of that,” Talon said.

  “I’ll go talk with Nate Levy,” Jess said. “He was a boxing manager but now he’s opened up a used clothing store. Nate will fix you up.”

  Talon swallowed a shot of whiskey that made his eyes pop. “My God, and this is the good stuff!” Then his voice on fire, “It’s rotgut.”

  “This ain’t Buckingham Palace, Your Majesty,” the dark-haired woman said. “It’s a bathhouse. Rotgut is what we sell in this joint until the posh gents of refined taste like you come in later.”

  Jess picked up Talon’s wallet and said, “Where did a raggedy-ass like you get all this money?”

  “I saved it,” Talon said.

  “Somebody saved it,” Jess said. “I’ll bring it back with your new duds.”

  “You don’t even know my size,” Talon said.

  “Medium height, skinny build, that’s all Nate Levy needs.”

  “Sheriff, why are you doing all this for me?” Talon said, his voice bumpy as a woman pummeled soap through his hair.

  “Because I saw a man scraping the bottom of his last barrel who badly needed a break.” Jess smiled “You reminded me of me.”

  “Well, I’m beholden to you,” Talon said.

  “I’m not saying that I won’t arrest you later on suspicion of highway robbery and possible murder,” Jess said. “But first things first. I won’t have a smelly tramp in my cells.”

  “I didn’t murder anybody,” Talon said.

  “Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?” Jess said.

  * * *

  “Well, what do you think, Jess?” Nate Levy said. “An incredible transformation, I say.” Then, to Ford Talon, “The sack suit is all the rage nowadays and the vest, bow tie and bowler hat set it off to perfection.”

  Talon looked at himself in a mirror held by one of the ladies. He’d been clean-shaven except for his mustache and that had been combed and trimmed. “I look better than I thought I would,” he said.

  “You look good,” Jess said. “Like an officer and a gentleman. Who knew that under all that hair a handsome face was waiting to reappear?”

  “I was an officer and a gentleman once,” Talon said. “But that was a long time ago.” He smiled. “And now I’m about to faint with hunger.”

  “Good, because lunch is on you,” Jess said. “Nate and me didn’t go to all this trouble for nothing.”

  * * *

  Ford Talon fell on his food like a starving wolf and for a while Jess Casey and Nate Levy sat back and just watched him eat.

  After Talon shoveled down a huge steak and half a dozen eggs with plenty of bread and butter, then two wedges of apple pie, Nate said, “I’d rather buy his clothes than feed him. Even my boy Zeus didn’t eat that much.”

  “I’ve been hungry for a long time,” Talon said, dabbing his napkin to his mustache. “Three years to be exact.”

  “Why were you sent to Huntsville?” Jess said. “And more to the point, how did you get out and when?”

  But Talon didn’t have time to give an answer because a towheaded boy rushed into the restaurant and breathlessly yelled, “Sheriff, Mad Dog Rankin is at it again!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “How many times is this?” Sheriff Jess Casey asked big Boone Hart, the owner of the Pony Cart Saloon, a modest establishment at the corner of Rusk and 15th.

  “Third time in my place,” Hart said. He was a grossly overweight man with a magnificent pair of muttonchop whiskers that framed his round, scarlet face. “I can’t speak for anyone else.” Then, “He’s got Nancy Nairn in there and three others.”

  Nancy Nairn, the Nacogdoches Nightingale, was the star attraction at the Pony Cart, but more for the size of her generous breasts than the tunefulness of her singing.

  “Has he hurt anyone?” Jess said.

  “Not yet, as far as I know.”

  A chattering crowd had gathered outside the saloon, since Mad Dog Rankin, all seven feet of him, was a sight to see when he went off on a whiskey-fueled rampage. Jess didn’t want to go in after him, not then, not ever, but there was no one else. He was the sheriff and he had it to do.