The Butcher of Baxter Pass Read online

  With luck, the parents could lay a claim on the kid and get that boy out of here before Mort Thompson returned from Dallas and filed a charge.

  A clerk brought the mail that had arrived with the stagecoach, which Jess put aside to sort through later, but then the clerk handed him a note written on Trinity River Hotel stationery. The handwriting was beautifully feminine, and he knew who had written it. When the clerk started for the door, Jess stopped him.

  “Any passengers on the stages today?” Jess asked.

  The clerk turned, sniffled, and looked at Jess as if he had lost his mind. Jess grinned and could not blame the clerk. After all, it was a stagecoach, generally stagecoaches carried passengers, and in a town the size of Fort Worth, usually a few of those passengers got off.

  “Any strangers?” Jess stressed.

  “I reckon so. A few.”

  “Any one of them carrying a weapon?”

  “Not that I noticed.” The clerk scratched his balding head, thinking, picturing the passengers, and understanding Jess’s reason for asking. “Couple of drummers.... And a preacher man. Had a white collar anyhow, and a big, thick Bible in his lap, but he was older than Methuselah. Them’s all that come on the westbound.” He opened the door, but stopped in the doorway and faced Jess again. “But, come to think on it, the northbound had a passenger, too.”

  For a moment, Jess tensed, thinking that the northbound could have been coming from Stephenville. He tried to remember if the McNamara boys had any other brothers ... or friends.

  “But it was just some ol’ cripple,” the clerk said, and Jess let out a breath of relief.

  The door closed behind the clerk, and Jess considered the newcomers: drummers, a preacher, and a cripple. Well, maybe those visitors wouldn’t be a threat to the peace of Fort Worth. After unfolding the note addressed to him, Jess read:

  Sheriff Casey—

  Received shortly after noon today a note, printed in big block letters, that read:

  THE BUTCHER WILL NOT MAKE IT TO THE OPERA HOUSE ALIVE NOR WILL ANYONE WHO GOES THERE WITH HIM LEAVE FORT WORTH NOW. OR DIE.

  BROTHERS OF THE CONFEDERACY

  Letting out a breath, Jess dropped the note on the desk. Brothers of the Confederacy? Those would likely be the brothers McNamara.

  * * *

  He finished his coffee, sorted through the mail, glanced at the clock, and stood. Hoot Newton was asleep on the little couch in the corner, and Jess let him sleep. He pulled on his coat, took the Winchester from the case, and stepped outside, quickly pulling up his collar. The wind had turned bitter, biting, furious, and gray clouds loomed ominously overhead. By the time he had turned onto Main Street, the sleet had begun, stinging him and pelting the hat he had pulled low onto his head. The blustery, frigid weather had cleared most of the streets, and when he reached the Trinity River Hotel, Major Clarke and one of the hotel busboys were busy securing a tarp over the Gatling gun atop the circus wagon.

  Jess didn’t offer to help. He stepped inside and moved to the potbelly stove in the center of the lobby.

  “It’s warmer in here most times, Sheriff,” a snotty hotel clerk said from behind the front desk. “Or was ... back when we had windows.”

  With the rifle tucked up underneath his armpit, Jess merely gave the clerk an evil eye and blew on his hands. The sleet drummed against the hotel’s tin roof, and the clerk turned his attention to a hangnail. By then, the busboy and Major Clarke had finished their chore and were walking back inside.

  The busboy headed into the vacant restaurant. Major Jedediah Clarke stopped in front of Jess.

  “Miserable out there,” Clarke said as he held out his hands toward the stove.

  Jess didn’t feel like commenting on the weather. “How do you plan on getting General Dalton to the opera house?”

  Clarke sniffed and rubbed his cold face. “Same as always. He climbs atop the wagon, Caroline plays that steam organ, and we ride down the Main Street to cheers and hurrahs. Turn at the courthouse, then down the street, turn onto Calhoun, and roll right up to the opera house. A grand parade!” Sarcasm accented the voice.

  “Let me rephrase that, Clarke,” Jess said. He decided to shun calling this fraud Major. “How do you plan on getting General Dalton to the opera house ... alive?”

  The pelting sleet softened for a minute, then picked up with the wind, which flapped the tarp over the busted front window.

  “You heard about our death threat, eh?”

  Jess nodded.

  “You realize, of course, that General Dalton has gotten many death threats over the past twenty-five years. This is not unusual. Copperheads and Southern sympathizers often frequented his lectures in northern cities such as Terre Haute, Danville, Indianapolis, Columbus, Pittsburgh ...”

  “You’re not in Terre Haute,” Jess reminded him. “Danville. Indianapolis. Columbus. Pittsburgh. You’re in Fort Worth, Texas, formerly of the Confederacy.”

  “I think we can handle matters, Sheriff.”

  That’s when one side of the tarp covering what had been a nice, expensive plate glass window collapsed in a heap, covering rocking chairs and a settee. Ice poured in, and Jess stepped over the supine body of Major Jedediah Clarke, who had screamed and dropped to the floor at the sudden noise.

  “I see how you handle things, Major,” Jess said. He left his rifle on a chair and moved toward the window with the busboy, who had rushed out from the restaurant to help. The clerk did not move from the counter. Major Clarke did manage to find his knees.

  “You got a hammer?” Jess had to shout to the busboy. The wind roared, and the sleet came down like rain in a spring thunderstorm. The street was already covered with two inches of ice, and Fort Worth was gray and white, and bitterly cold.

  “Yes-suh!” The busboy hurried back to the restaurant.

  Jess grabbed one corner of the fallen tarp and shouted out, “And some nails.”

  Wind and sleet pricked his ears and neck. He backed his way toward the wall, pulling the heavy, frozen canvas tarp with him. His boots crunched the ice that already covered the rug near the window. Lowering his head, Jess turned and glanced outside. The circus wagon looked frozen, the one bit of color in a veritable tundra. No one was outside, for only a fool would venture out in this weather. He braced himself against the wall and looked at the clock.

  Maybe nobody would show up for Lincoln Dalton’s final lecture. Maybe the Butcher would even cancel the event. No, he knew those were forlorn hopes and that the McNamara boys would be waiting to kill the general and anyone else, even if the weather worsened.

  Which, from the looks of things, seemed impossible.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday, 3:20 p.m.

  “What are you doing in my house?” Brevet Brigadier General Lincoln Everett Dalton called out from the bed where he had stretched out over the quilts and blankets.

  Ignoring the old man, Jess Casey pointed toward the window, even though the curtains were closed tightly, not allowing even the slightest afternoon light into the suite.

  “In this weather,” Jess said, “the McNamara boys could be anywhere. On any rooftop. One shot is all they need. And in this weather, it will be tough to spot a rifle barrel before the trigger’s pulled.”

  Lee Bodeen spit into a cuspidor. “Be hard to hit a target in this weather, too.”

  Jess nodded. He had considered that.

  “Where’s my supper?” the Butcher called out. “Private! I asked for ham and eggs and black coffee. Bring me my supper or you, boy, will join those Rebs in the stockade.”

  “Hush, Father.” Caroline Dalton walked from the corner of the bed to the window. She started to pull on the curtain, but her hand dropped, and she looked at Jess. “So how do we get Father to the opera house?”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Jess said. “Call it off. Go home to Decatur. Let him finish his last days in peace.”

  Although Jess wondered how much peace the Butcher would find in Wise County, Texas. The o
ld fool should have stayed in Terre Haute, Indiana.

  “That, sir, is out of the question.” General Dalton sat upright in bed, eyes no longer rheumy but full of fierce pride. He swung his feeble legs over the bedside and tried to stand, but that’s where his strength failed him. Yet even though the old man could not stand, he raised his arm and pointed a long finger at Jess Casey.

  “You are secessionist trash, boy. A traitor to the Stars and Stripes. I’d have you shot, only that is not good enough for the likes of you. I am Major Dalton, and I will speak tonight. Everyone will hear what I have to say about our glorious nation and about Baxter Pass. Do you understand me, boy?”

  Every eye had trained on the old man. Major Clarke’s mouth hung agape. Even Caroline seemed surprised by her father.

  “Boy.” The old man lowered his arm, but not his burning eyes. “When I ask a question, I expect an answer, and that answer should come immediately. Now ...” The eyes closed, and he sank back in bed, calling up toward the tin ceiling, “Where is my supper?”

  “We can’t cancel,” Caroline said. She lowered her head, drew up a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. “It’s Father’s wish.”

  “He might be like that, Miss Caroline.” Well, Major Jedediah Clarke had some ounce of decency in his veins. “Just mumble about idiotic things, forget where he is, forget who we are, why he’s here.”

  “Forget who he is,” Lee Bodeen said with a snort. “Damned idiot.”

  “He won’t,” Caroline said. “I’ve seen Father like this before. He’ll sharpen his tongue ...”

  “When?” Jess asked. “Five years ago? When was the last time he spoke in front of more than ten or twelve people?”

  “It’s his wish, Jess,” she said as she moved back toward her father. “I have to grant him that. It might be his last request.”

  Silence filled the room, except for the sleet and wind outside, and the Butcher of Baxter Pass’s snores from the bed.

  “So ...” Major Clarke began. “How do we get him to the opera house?”

  “Take him in that chariot out yonder,” Bodeen said. “See what kind of guts anyone has in this fleabag of a town. Parade him right down the street and dare anyone to test.” He held out his right hand with an evil grin. “Test the hand of Lee Bodeen.”

  The wind moaned. Sleet slapped the roof and sides of the hotel. General Dalton mumbled something incoherently.

  “I have an idea,” Jess Casey said.

  * * *

  Getting the old man down the stairs wasn’t as hard as Jess thought it could have been—and probably should have been. Caroline Dalton had gone to the desk clerk, and, without too much effort, lured him into the restaurant on the pretense of needing a glass of wine. Who wouldn’t follow a stunning woman into a restaurant?

  With the lobby vacant, Jess, Major Clarke, and Lee Bodeen hurried down the stairs, the Butcher being carried by Clarke and Bodeen. Oh, Lincoln Dalton sang out his protests and sang out Tenting Tonight, but the wind moaning through all the broken windows and the pounding of the sleet outside drowned out his lyrics. Sprinting ahead of the two Dalton employees, Jess raced to the storeroom, opened the door, and held his breath as Clarke and Bodeen carried the singing old man inside. Quickly, he closed the door before anyone came to investigate.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Jess lighted a candle and led the way to the hotel’s rear entrance. He pointed to a crate, and Bodeen and Clarke deposited their load and stepped back.

  “Now what?” Bodeen asked.

  “You go back upstairs,” he said. “I’ll be there directly. What time is it?”

  Clarke didn’t answer, but he pulled out his watch and showed it to Jess.

  “Not much time,” Clarke said before returning the watch.

  “Go rescue Miss Dalton,” Jess said. “Then you wait for us upstairs.”

  “You think you can pull this off ?” Bodeen asked.

  “I can try,” Jess said, and watched as the two men walked back toward the lobby.

  * * *

  “Where’s my breakfast?” Dalton said.

  “Won’t be long now, Major,” Jess said, and leaned against the door.

  “Major? I’m a store clerk.”

  Ignoring the Butcher, Jess could hear the sleet and the wind and even feel the bite of the winter storm. The door opened into a rear alley, and Jess recognized the potential problems. Servants, cooks, busboys all entered the hotel through the storeroom, and if one happened to come to work now, Jess’s plan could be shot.

  “I killed twelve hundred and seventy-four Confederates, boy,” the Butcher said, his memory working again, and then he doubled over into a massive coughing spell.

  Jess came to him. The old man wheezed, groaned, moaned, and then tears poured down his stubbled cheeks.

  “This ain’t ...” the old man gasped. “This ain’t ... a fitting ...” He coughed again, and, even with only the small candle for light, he detected the flecks of blood. Finding a handkerchief in his pocket, he handed it to the general, who wiped his mouth as soon as the spell had lessened.

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” the old man said, cognizant of his surroundings.

  “You’re ... welcome,” Jess said. A moment later, he heard the clopping of a mule’s hoofs outside.

  He stood, one hand gripping the butt of his Colt and the other the door’s latch. Wetting his lips, he waited, heard a voice, and cautiously pulled the door open. The fierce wind greeted him, but the sleet seemed to be lessening.

  Wearing a heavy cloak, Caroline Dalton came down from the surrey someone had left in front of the Cattleman’s Bank.

  “Anybody see you?” Jess asked, as he grabbed her hand and pulled her inside.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “All right.”

  Caroline helped her father to his feet and pulled the quilt over his head and shoulders. “Father,” she said softly, “we’re going now. I’ll help you. I’ll be with you.”

  “I am responsible for the deaths of twelve hundred and seventy-four men,” the Butcher said. “And I do not give a tinker’s damn.”

  Jess opened the door and hurried to the buggy. The draft horse looked miserable, and if Jess ever found out who had left a horse like this hitched to a wagon in front of the bank, he’d arrest the lousy fiend. He looked up and down the alley, but saw only the whiteness of the ground and the grayness of the skies. Then he was back, taking the general by his other arm, guiding him to the surrey.

  The old man pulled away and slipped on the ice. Caroline let out a shout as her feet shot out from underneath her, and she landed hard. Jess found himself facedown on the cold, frozen earth, and slipped again when he tried to push himself up.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you!” General Dalton shouted.

  On his third try, Jess managed to get himself to his feet and pulled the Butcher up. Caroline came up, next, and tried to cover her father with the quilt, but the old man tossed it off.

  Cursing and praying, Caroline fetched the ice-covered quilt and tossed it over her father’s head. He put up a fight, but Jess wrapped his arms around the man’s chest, dragged him to the surrey, then pulled him into the back of the wagon behind him. The surrey’s roof stopped the hail from stinging Jess’s body, but the wind numbed him.

  Caroline jumped into the driver’s seat, released the brake, and flipped the lines.

  “Straight down this alley?”

  “Yeah,” Jess said as he wiped the ice off his face.

  The mule seemed relieved to be moving again, warmer if he kept going. Jess didn’t feel any relief. He peered over the side of the surrey, careful not to hit his head or arms against the rear walls of the buildings. It was a tight fit. The sky was darkening, though more than an hour remained before sundown. When they reached the intersection, Jess gave Caroline directions, and he looked both ways, then at the rooftops.

  No one was out. Who would be?

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, they reached the Fort Worth Opera House.
Jess leaped from the buggy before they even reached the building. Somehow, he managed not to slip on the ice, and he came to the front door and opened it.

  He was back by the surrey as Caroline set the brake, and he began pulling the old man out, tossing him over his shoulder like a pair of saddlebags, and stepping under the awning and into the opera house.

  The room was warm. It felt like heaven.

  Caroline shut the door.

  “We made it,” she said, but her smile did not lessen any tension.

  “This far,” Jess said, as he lowered the old Butcher onto the floor and let Caroline take off the quilt.

  “Where are we?” Dalton demanded. “Are you Mosby? Have you kidnapped me, you gray-coated traitor?”

  “This way,” Jess said, “General.”

  * * *

  The way this lecture was supposed to go, Caroline had explained back in the hotel, was that the wagon would pull up to the front of the theater, where throngs of people would be waiting. As Caroline played the final notes on the steam organ, Major Clarke and Lee Bodeen would escort General Dalton into the theater.

  “Who takes the tickets?” Jess had asked. “Seats everyone?”

  That, Caroline had explained, had been left up to Gary Custer. Since Mr. Custer was now awaiting his own burial, and no one had volunteered or said they had been hired, Caroline figured she would do the seating, Major Clarke would take the tickets, and Lee Bodeen would stay with her father until the curtain was raised.

  Jess wasn’t sure how many people the opera house would seat, but doubted if it would be less than three hundred. Maybe even four hundred.

  “I’m not sure two people can handle that kind of a crowd,” Jess had said.