Dead Man Walking Page 2

  He launched into an old Cherokee song. It wasn’t long before Keller was cussing about that, too.

  By the time the wagon reached Tahlequah, the capital of the Cherokee Nation, the prisoner had given up and gone to sleep, snoring raucously through his broken nose. John Henry had worked out of this pleasant little town when he was a member of the Cherokee Lighthorse, the tribal police force, and also when he was the Nation’s chief sheriff.

  He had given up those jobs to concentrate on being a deputy United States marshal, but he still had many friends here among the members of the Cherokee government, including Lighthorse Captain Charley LeFlores.

  John Henry brought the wagon to a stop in front of Lighthorse headquarters, and while he was tying up the team he told a boy who was loitering on the porch to go inside and let Captain LeFlores know he was here.

  When LeFlores stepped out onto the porch he craned his neck to look into the back of the wagon and said, “Are those dead men I see in there, John Henry?”

  “Two of ’em are. The other one’s still alive, unless corpses have taken to snoring.”

  “Just two out of three.” LeFlores clucked his tongue and shook his head. “You’re slipping. Must be slowing down a mite in your old age.” He took another look. “Good Lord. Is that Valentine Starbird?”

  “Yep. And Clovis Miller.”

  “Well, there’s good riddance doubled. I heard you were hellin’ around, making a lot of noise about bringing Starbird in. That was just bait, wasn’t it?”

  John Henry shrugged.

  “Where’d you catch up to them?” LeFlores asked.

  “Actually, they tried to bushwhack me up at Billy Rainbow’s trading post. That’s his wagon I borrowed.”

  LeFlores nodded and said, “Thought I recognized it. Rainbow’s, eh?” He sighed wistfully. “Doris is still just as pretty as ever, I suppose?”

  “Yes, and she’s still young enough to be your daughter, too.”

  “When you get to be my age, it’s perfectly acceptable to appreciate feminine beauty.” The captain grimaced. “Truth be told, appreciating it is about all I can do these days—”

  John Henry held up a hand to stop him and said, “You’ll see to it that Starbird and Miller get planted, won’t you?”

  LeFlores slipped his hands into the back pockets of his trousers and rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet.

  “That depends. Will my office be reimbursed for any expenses incurred in the burial of said felons?”

  “I’ll make a note to tell Judge Parker about it.”

  “Well, then, I reckon we can take care of it.”

  “The jasper making all that racket with his busted snout is Tupelo Keller, by the way. I guess I’ll have to rent a wagon to take him on over to Fort Smith, since Billy said to leave his wagon here in town at Harriman’s.”

  “No, that won’t do,” LeFlores said.

  John Henry frowned in surprise.

  “Why not? I can charge the wagon rental to my expenses.”

  “You can’t take the time to make a leisurely drive by wagon to Fort Smith,” LeFlores explained. “I got a telegram from Judge Parker yesterday. It said that if I was to see you, I should tell you to get back to Fort Smith posthaste. I reckon that means you should rattle your hocks.”

  “You know good and well that’s what it means,” John Henry said. “You’re an educated man, Charley.”

  “I’m smart enough to know that when the Hangin’ Judge says to hurry, a fella better not waste any time. If I was you, I’d climb on that big gray horse of yours and head for Arkansas as soon as I picked up a few supplies for the trip.”

  John Henry jerked a thumb at the wagon bed and asked, “What about Keller?”

  “I’ll keep him locked up here until Judge Parker can send somebody else after him. That sound all right to you?”

  “Sure, I guess so. It’s a generous gesture on your part, Charley.”

  “Here in the Territory we like to stay on good terms with the federal government, and that definitely includes federal district court judges.”

  “I’ll tell Parker you passed along his message,” John Henry promised.

  “Anything else I can do to assist you, Marshal?”

  “No . . . unless you can tell me why the judge is in such an all-fired hurry to see me.”

  “I don’t have a clue,” LeFlores said, “but given your history, I’d say there’s a good chance he’s eager to send you somewhere and have you shoot somebody.”

  Chapter Three

  As usual, Iron Heart was eager to stretch his legs and run, especially after spending all morning plodding along behind a wagon. Every now and then during the trip from Billy Rainbow’s trading post, Iron Heart had blown air loudly through his nose in what John Henry suspected was the equine equivalent of irritated muttering.

  John Henry had fifty miles to cover between Tahlequah and Fort Smith, though, so he held Iron Heart in slightly to keep the gray from getting too worn out. There was no telling where Judge Parker was going to be sending him or when he’d have to leave. He might need his faithful trail partner almost right away.

  He had started from Tahlequah too late in the day to finish the journey by nightfall, so he spent the night in a tiny hamlet that didn’t amount to much more than a wide place in the road. There was no hotel, only a general store, a blacksmith shop, and a livery stable, but the owner of the stable was agreeable to John Henry bunking in the hayloft.

  “Just don’t get spooked and shoot Chester,” the liveryman warned.

  “Who’s Chester?” John Henry asked. “Is somebody else already sleeping up there?”

  “Chester’s my tomcat. Best ratter in this whole part of the country.”

  “Oh.” John Henry nodded in understanding. “I’ll be careful.”

  The storekeeper shared his supper, for a price. Most people in this area knew John Henry from his time as a Lighthorseman and chief sheriff and were happy to assist him, but these were hardheaded businessmen and their hospitality came with a price. John Henry didn’t mind. The judge might grouse a little about his expenses, but they always got paid.

  Judge Parker knew that John Henry got results and was worth it.

  After supper, a cup of coffee, and a cigar shared with the storekeeper, John Henry went back to the stable and climbed to the hayloft, where he had put his bedroll earlier. He stretched out and dozed off quickly, as he usually did, falling into the sort of light but restful sleep that good lawmen learned how to achieve. A man who packed a badge had to be able to wake up quickly and fully alert . . . if he wanted to stay alive for very long, that is.

  A rustle in the hay, a heavy thud, and a sharp squeal roused him from that sleep. He sat up quickly with his Colt in his hand. He didn’t remember drawing it from the holster attached to the coiled shell belt beside his head, but there it was. He looked around but couldn’t see much in the gloom that shrouded the loft.

  Then he stiffened slightly as he saw two large, glowing green eyes watching him.

  John Henry trained the revolver on the eyes. Using his left hand, he slid a match from his shirt pocket and snapped the lucifer to life with his thumbnail.

  As the glare spread across the loft, it revealed the largest yellow tabby cat John Henry had ever seen. The cat must have weighed twenty-five pounds, and not much of it was fat, either. A scarred nose and ragged ears testified to the epic feline battles the animal had waged.

  Right now its jaws were clamped around the lifeless, furry corpse of a large rat with a long, naked tail. When John Henry leaned forward slightly, the cat growled, as if daring him to try to take the carcass away from it. He would pay dearly if he tried it, the cat seemed to be saying.

  “I reckon you must be Chester,” John Henry said as he slid the Colt back into its holster. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to try to take your rat away from you. I’ve got more sense than that.”

  Chester stood up, turned, and stalked off haughtily into the bales of hay, tw
itching his tail at John Henry like some sort of obscene gesture.

  “I’ve heard old granny women warn folks about cats!” John Henry called after the creature. “They say you’re all possessed by devils. Might be something to that.”

  The match had just about burned down to his fingertips. He blew it out and pinched it between his fingers to make sure not even the faintest ember remained. You had to be mighty careful with fire around hay.

  Then he stretched out again and fell back into an uneasy sleep, a part of his brain remembering the stories he’d heard as a boy about how cats would crouch on your chest and steal your breath. He figured Chester was big enough to do it, too.

  Nothing of the sort happened, of course, and John Henry didn’t even see the cat the next morning when he got up, settled accounts with the liveryman, and set out for Fort Smith again.

  He arrived there without incident by midday and rode straight to the big, square block of a redbrick building that served as the federal courthouse.

  Some of his fellow deputy marshals were loitering at the bottom of the steps leading up to the main entrance. They greeted John Henry warmly for the most part, although a couple of the men were a little surly, probably because they felt like John Henry sometimes got preferential treatment from the judge.

  “If you’re here to see Parker, court’s in session right now, John Henry,” said Tim Weatherbee, one of the lawmen. “He ought to be taking the noon recess pretty soon, though.”

  J.P. Harlingen, another of the marshals, said, “I heard you went over into the Nations after Valentine Starbird, Sixkiller. Don’t see any prisoners with you, though.”

  “That’s because Starbird and Clovis Miller are in pine boxes in Tahlequah by now,” John Henry said. He didn’t particularly like Harlingen, and the feeling was mutual. “Tupelo Keller is locked up in Charley LeFlores’s jail.” He paused and smiled. “I expect the judge will send one of you boys to fetch him in. Maybe you, J.P.”

  Harlingen scowled and said, “Why didn’t you just bring him yourself?”

  “Because the judge wanted to see me in a hurry. I reckon he’s got an important job for me.”

  With that, John Henry went up the stairs and into the courthouse.

  A bailiff stood outside the door to Parker’s courtroom, hands folded behind his back. He nodded to John Henry and said, “The judge has been expecting you, Marshal Sixkiller. He said if you came in, you should go around to his chambers, and he’ll meet you there as soon as court’s adjourned.”

  John Henry nodded his thanks, then went around a corner and through a door into a room dominated by a big desk. Shelves filled with law books and other leather-bound volumes lined the walls. John Henry had been there only a moment when another door opened and Judge Isaac C. Parker came into the room.

  Parker was a dark-haired man who sported a neat goatee. He wasn’t very big, but the black robe he wore made him an impressive figure. He nodded to John Henry and said, “I knew you’d arrived in Fort Smith and would be waiting here for me, Marshal.”

  John Henry didn’t ask how Parker had known that he’d ridden into Fort Smith. The judge had ways of finding things out. He had sources of information scattered all over town, but sometimes his knowledge seemed almost supernatural to John Henry.

  “Sit down,” Parker went on, and started divesting himself of the judicial robe. “We don’t have a lot of time,” he continued as he hung the robe on a brass hook attached to the wall. “I have an important trial going on.”

  “Big case?”

  Parker sighed and said, “No, petty and sordid, the way most crime is. But it’s caught the public’s attention, and not only that, some blasted newspaper reporter wrote a story the other day about how it’s been more than a month since I sentenced anybody to hang. Some people seem to think I’m letting them down when there’s a shortage of gallows fruit.”

  “Well, there’ll be work for George Maledon pretty soon,” John Henry said, referring to the hangman who carried out the sentences of death imposed by Judge Parker. “Tupelo Keller is locked up in Tahlequah. I left him there so I could get back here faster. Charley LeFlores told me you sent him a telegram saying you were in a hurry to see me.”

  “Keller, eh? What about Starbird? He’s the leader of that wicked bunch.”

  “Not anymore. He and Clovis Miller are dead.”

  Parker grunted and then jerked his head in a curt nod.

  “Good work, Marshal. Although some people in town probably would have preferred it if I could have hanged all three of them at the same time. Ah, well, dead’s dead, I suppose, and justice was done, which in the end is all that matters.” Parker shoved a stack of papers across the desk toward John Henry, who had settled down in a chair of brown morocco leather in front of the desk, where he always sat when he visited Parker’s chambers. “Here’s some reading for you to do on the train.”

  “Train?” John Henry repeated, wincing slightly. “You’re sending me somewhere so far away I have to go on a train?”

  “Well, you can’t ride all the way to California on that big gray horse of yours, now can you?” Parker leaned his head to the side. “Although I suppose you could, of course. But you probably wouldn’t get there in time to catch the scoundrel I’m sending you after.”

  Chapter Four

  “California? That’s really out of our bailiwick, isn’t it?”

  “A federal marshal has jurisdiction throughout the entire country.”

  “I know,” John Henry said, “but it seems like somebody closer to California could handle this job, whatever it is. That fella who works out of the Denver office, maybe?”

  Judge Parker shook his head.

  “This case originated in our jurisdiction, or at least the first reports of it did, so that gives us first claim on dealing with it,” he said.

  “Us meaning me,” John Henry said.

  “Your job is to apprehend the criminals, mine is to preside over their trials,” Parker replied rather stiffly. “At any rate, you can see from those documents that the suspicious bills were first spotted in Wichita, Kansas.”

  “Suspicious bills,” John Henry repeated. “So we’re talking about counterfeiting?”

  “Indeed we are, and on a fairly large scale, too. The distribution hasn’t been confined to one town or even one state. As I mentioned, the phony bills first turned up in Wichita, but since then they’ve surfaced in Denver, Santa Fe, and Tucson as well. The most recent report of them is in Los Angeles.”

  “Somebody’s making their way across the Southwest, passing the bills,” John Henry said. “The same person, or maybe a gang that he’s running?”

  “One of those two options, certainly. It would strain the bounds of credibility to have that many different counterfeiters suddenly operating independently at the same time. All the details are in those documents, along with information about the man the Justice Department believes to be ultimately responsible, a fellow named Ignatius O’Reilly.”

  John Henry had to smile at that. He repeated, “Ignatius O’Reilly, eh?”

  “Don’t let the colorful name fool you,” Parker warned. “O’Reilly has a reputation as a ruthless master criminal and expert forger and counterfeiter. From what I’ve read about the man, it’s possible that there’s no one better at engraving phony printing plates. Authorities in Washington have examined some of the spurious bills from various locations and are convinced that they’re all O’Reilly’s work, although they’re not considered to be some of the best examples of his illegal art.”

  “Well, everybody has an off day now and then,” John Henry said with a shrug. “So I’ll be picking up this fella O’Reilly’s trail in Los Angeles?”

  “That’s right. There’s a good chance he’ll have moved on by the time you get there, but it’s still the best lead we have. The only lead we have, actually. There’s a westbound train leaving later today, I believe.”

  John Henry sighed and nodded.

  “I’ll be on it,” h
e said. “It won’t take me long to get Iron Heart settled at the livery stable and pack a few things.”

  “Do you have any questions?”

  John Henry thought about it, then said, “One thing strikes me as a little odd about this, Your Honor.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Counterfeiting isn’t a hanging crime. At least it wasn’t the last time I checked.”

  “So why am I interested in it, is that what you mean?” Parker snapped.

  “Like I said, it just seems a little strange. No offense meant by it,” John Henry added hastily, although he could tell that Parker was indeed a little offended.

  “My job is to enforce the laws of the United States,” Parker said, sounding a little pompous. The judge could be a bit of a stuffed shirt every now and then, although John Henry had never held that against the man. “Counterfeiting is against the law, and it’s a crime that officials in Washington take very seriously.”

  “Yes, sir, I imagine they would.”

  John Henry understood now. For all the power that Isaac Parker wielded as a federal district court judge, he had people he answered to as well, and he was no more immune than anybody else to the desire to please the folks he worked for.

  “I’d be obliged if you’d forget that I brought up the subject,” John Henry added.

  Parker just said, “Hmmph,” then went on, “There’s one more thing. When you catch up to O’Reilly, try not to kill him. There are those who would like to question him.”

  “I’ll do my best,” John Henry said as he got to his feet, figuring that Parker was talking about officials in the Justice Department. “But when you come right down to it, Your Honor, that’ll sort of be up to him.”

  * * *

  Several years earlier, John Henry had helped the railroad extend a spur line from Kansas down through Indian Territory to Texas. He hadn’t toted rails or swung a sledgehammer to drive spikes, but rather had done battle as a lawman with forces that wanted to stop the expansion for greedy reasons of their own.

  That didn’t mean he particularly liked railroad trains. As far as he was concerned, they were loud, smoky, smelly critters, and traveling on one wasn’t even really all that comfortable unless you were rich enough to have your own private car or at least a Pullman compartment.