Cold-Blooded Read online

  “I’ll talk to him,” Jess said.

  “Mind the bowie, Sheriff,” Hart said. “He’s mighty quick with it.”

  “Thanks,” Jess said. “Those are words of wisdom I ain’t likely to forget.”

  Jess opened the saloon door and from behind him a man jeered, “Go get him, Sheriff!” And the crowd laughed.

  Inside, the saloon was filled with a gray light, there being few windows, and the stained sawdust on the timber floor had not been changed in days. Opposite the door several spittoons fronted a pine bar about fifteen feet long. The French mirror behind the bar was covered with protective wood and canvas that only came down on special occasions, Independence Day not being one of them on account of too much festive shooting.

  Four people sat at a table, a bottle of whiskey and glasses in front of them. Nancy Nairn wore a demure blue gingham dress, a ribbon of the same color holding back her dark hair. Even as his stomach lurched with apprehension, Jess allowed to himself that the girl had a magnificent shape. The bartender and piano player, looking nervous, filled two other chairs . . . and then there was Mad Dog.

  The man looked like an oak tree that had been dragged inside from an ogre’s forest. His shoulders were an ax-handle wide and his massive paws resting on the table looked like a pair of Smithfield hams. Dressed in greasy buckskins, he wore two revolvers of the largest kind, and a wicked-looking bowie knife about the size of a cavalry saber was driven into the table. Both his beard and shoulder-length red hair were dirty and tangled and his eyes glowed the greenest hue this side of hell.

  Mad Dog heard the chime of Jess’s spurs and looked him up and down. “Well, welcome, Sheriff, to our little hoedown. Bring a chair.”

  “Mr. Rankin,” Jess said, “I’m arresting you for disturbing the peace. Let’s go.”

  “And I do not want to be arrested,” Mad Dog said. “What do you think of them beans?”

  With remarkable speed, a huge Smith & Wesson Russian appeared in the big man’s hand. “I said sit down, lawman.”

  Jess summed things up in his mind and decided to comply with the order. With three people in harm’s way sitting so close to Mad Dog a gunfight was the last thing he needed.

  After he sat, Mad Dog roared for another bottle of whiskey and a glass. “We’ll drink together, Sheriff, and you’ll help soothe my troubled soul.” The big man nodded. “Yup, that’s what you’ll do.”

  “Is that all?” Jess said. “If it’s not, then state your intentions.”

  “My intentions,” Mad Dog said as he poured whiskey into Jess’s glass, “are to kill everyone here present and then myself. Mad Dog is sad.”

  “Why?” Jess said.

  Tears ran down the man’s cheeks. “Because my mother passed away five years ago this very day. Did you know my mother? She was a wonderful woman, a saint. She’d sing to her little Hyacinth when he was a boy until he fell asleep. Mad Dog was afraid of thunder then, way up there on the Kansas plains, but Ma used to kiss him and take all the scare away.”

  “That’s your name? Hyacinth?” Nancy Nairn said.

  “Yup, except nobody ever called me by it but Ma. She loved flowers, Ma did, but hyacinths most of all.” Mad Dog sobbed. “But now she’s gone and I’ll soon join her.” He glanced at the railroad clock on the wall. “She died at three of an afternoon, and so will we. You’ll soon hear her sing in the sweet by-and-by.”

  The bartender and the piano player exchanged looks. The bartender, a short, thickset man with a broken nose, looked like he was ready to make a play, but Jess glared a warning at him. As soon as he made his move Mad Dog would shoot him. Jess had no doubt about that.

  “You suffered a great loss, Mr. Rankin,” Jess said. Then putting to use all the time he’d spent comforting sick or injured ranch dogs, he patted the big man on the shoulder and said, “There, there, poor Dog, you must miss Ma terribly.”

  Mad Dog started to blubber. “I do, oh, I do. Sheriff, you know how deep is my sorrow. Damn it all, you’re a good man to the bone and I’m glad you’ll come with me when the clock strikes three.”

  Jess said, “Poor Doggy . . . what song did Ma sing to you when the thunder made you sceered?”

  “‘Beautiful Dreamer,’ it was. She sang it as sweet as an angel, my ma did.”

  “Nancy”—Jess gave the girl a look—“sing that pretty song for the poor Doggy.” He patted his chest and Nancy, as smart as a tree full of owls, scraped her chair over, laid Mad Dog’s head on her magnificent breasts, and sang in a thin, plaintive voice the opening verse of Ma Rankin’s song.

  “Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me . . .”

  His head on Nancy Nairn’s bust was as cozy a berth as a man could wish and Mad Dog smiled, closed his eyes and settled in like a man does into a feather pillow.

  “Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee . . .”

  Jess rose to his feet and slowly moved behind the big man. “Good Dog . . .” he crooned. “Good Doggy . . .” He drew and slammed his Colt into the side of Mad Dog’s head. Nancy screeched and rubbed the top of her left breast. “Damn it! He bit me!”

  But Mad Dog Rankin didn’t hear. He rolled to his left and fell out of the chair. The bartender didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the janitor’s closet behind the bar and returned with a rope.

  “Hog-tie him good,” Jess said. “He’s gonna be as mad as a teased rattler when he wakes up.”

  After he’d trussed the big man, the bartender said, “What you gonna do with him, Sheriff? I suggest you take him out of town and shoot him.”

  Jess smiled. “Nah, that would be murder. Mad Dog is all right when he’s sober.”

  “When the hell is he ever sober?” Nancy said. “Son of a bitch bit my begonia.”

  “Is the skin broken?” Jess said.

  Nancy pulled out the top of her dress and looked down. “No. It’s not.”

  Jess nodded. “Rub dirt on it. That’s what cowboys do for a bite.”

  “Yeah, Sheriff,” Nancy said. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  Jess, missing the irony, said, “You’re quite welcome, ma’am.”

  Mad Dog Rankin was a load. Jess commandeered a passing wagon and three men helped throw him into the bed and later tossed him into a cell. When the big man woke he called out for his mother, and then, rapidly changing his mind, for Nancy Nairn.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I’m the city marshal,” Kurt Koenig said. “I can’t be everywhere.”

  “How did it happen, Kurt?” Jess Casey said.

  “I’ve only got one eyewitness and she says she saw three ragged men go into Nate Levy’s store,” Koenig said. “They didn’t come out again and she got worried and came looking for you. She didn’t find you and sent her son after me.”

  “At the time I was busy with Mad Dog Rankin,” Jess said.

  “I know, and damn it, Jess, you don’t stay busy with scum like that. He was threatening to kill three captive people. You should have walked into the saloon and shot him dead—no ifs, buts or maybes.”

  “That’s your way, Kurt. It’s not mine.”

  “Your way is to do your best to put me and Luke Short out of business and the hell with everything else,” Koenig said, his handsome face flushed. “Because you didn’t kill Rankin, the only friend you got in this town lies at death’s door.”

  “Where is Nate?” Jess said.

  “At Dr. Bell’s house on 11th Street. He got beaten pretty badly. All they took were clothes and the money Nate had on him, about eighty dollars.”

  “I’ll find them,” Jess said.

  “And then what, Jess? You’ll lock them in a cell for a couple of days? Fine them ten dollars, maybe? In Fort Worth you find them and you kill them. That’s how the law works around here.”

  Jess got up from behind his desk and buckled on his gun belt. “I’ll go visit Nate.” Then, “See this?” He picked up a massive law book from his desk. “It’s the Penal Code and the Code of Criminal Procedure of Texas, revised in 1879. This is the law around here.”

  “In Texas maybe, not in Hell’s Half Acre,” Koenig said.

  Before Jess could try to stop him Koenig drew his gun and walked rapidly to the door that led to the cells. He kicked it wide, raised his Colt and pumped three bullets into Mad Dog Rankin, smashing him against the far wall of his cell. The big man died without making a sound but he rode Koenig’s last bullet into eternity with his eyes wide open in fear and surprise.

  “What the hell have you done?” Jess yelled.

  “I done what you should have done when you walked into the Pony Cart Saloon today,” Koenig said.

  “You just committed murder,” Jess said.

  “No, I executed a prisoner because he could be responsible for the death of a better man than him and for past crimes too many to mention.”

  “It was cold-blooded murder,” Jess said.

  “You going to arrest me, Jess? Go ahead, arrest me, and then try to make a murder charge stick. Nate Levy is well liked in this town. Mad Dog Rankin wasn’t.”

  His ears ringing from the gunshots, Jess Casey was too stunned to think clearly. Koenig brushed past him, then said, “If you’re looking for me, Jess, come with a gun in your hand. I’ll be at the Silver Garter. But first you’d better get Big Sal to remove the carrion from your cell before it stinks.”

  Jess stared at Mad Dog’s bloody body, then walked back to his desk. He poured himself a whiskey from the bottle in his desk and built a cigarette. After a while he rose to his feet. It was time to get Big Sal the undertaker and to visit Nate Levy . . . and ask his forgiveness.

  * * *

  Nate Levy was lying in a makeshift hospital room at the rear of Dr. Arthur Bell’s house. The doctor was out on a call but his wife, a pretty blond woman, showed him the way.

  “He’s resting comfortably,” she said. “But he took a terrible beating and my husband fears for his life. Just a few minutes, Sheriff. Don’t tire him.”

  After the woman closed the door behind her, Jess stepped to the bed.

  “Nate, can you hear me?” he said. “You’re making a habit of this, seems like.”

  Both the little man’s eyes were swollen shut with great purple and black bruises and Jess couldn’t tell if he was conscious or not. But then Nate lifted his hand and indicated that Jess should come closer. His split lips moved and in a hoarse whisper he said, “Leon . . . Curtis . . .”

  Jess put his ear to Nate’s mouth and said, “Are those the men who robbed you?” But Nate had lapsed into unconsciousness and could no longer hear him.

  “You look tired, Sheriff Casey,” Mrs. Bell said as she showed Jess to the door. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  Jess refused, making the excuse of a mountain of official papers back at the office.

  “Well, be sure to get some sleep,” the woman said. “I declare, you’re all used up.”

  * * *

  When Jess Casey returned to the sheriff’s office it was full dark. He lit the lamps then filled a bucket with water and mopped out his bloody cell. That chore took the best part of two hours and when he finished he sat behind his desk and built a cigarette. He’d just thumbed a match into flame when the door opened and Destiny Durand stepped inside, a frown on her beautiful face.

  Destiny was not one to stand on ceremony.

  “Jess Casey, you puke, you upset Kurt,” she said. “I don’t know what to do with him. He says you plan to arrest him, but he likes you and he says that shooting you would make him even more distressed.”

  “It would distress me, too,” Jess said.

  “And all over a lowlife like Mad Dog Rankin.” Destiny’s flame-red dress rustled as she stepped to Jess’s desk. “If ever a man needed killing, he did. Everybody knows it was him who broke Rosie St. Pierre’s neck at the Pink Kitten last year. But nobody could prove it.”

  “Destiny, Kurt murdered him,” Jess said.

  “Listen, mister, if you want to continue as a lawman in this town you’d better learn the difference between a murder and a legal execution. Harry Stout told me that Kurt was in the right.” Destiny paused for breath, then said, “How is Nate Levy?”

  “He’s holding in there,” Jess said.

  “He’s a sweet little man. True-blue, unlike other people I could mention. Another thing, next week Kurt is reopening the Green Buddha in partnership with Luke Short, if Luke’s still around. He just thought you should know.”

  “Is he selling opium?” Jess said.

  “That’s what the Green Buddha is, an opium den.”

  “Then I’ll close it down,” Jess said. “And what’s this about Luke Short? Is he leaving town?”

  “You don’t get out much, do you, Sheriff?” Destiny said. “Right now even as we speak, Banjo Tom Van Meter is in the Alhambra telling anyone who’ll listen that he plans to shoot Luke on sight.”

  Jess glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s after midnight, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I know, way too early to start serious drinking, even for the Acre.” Destiny moved to the door then stopped and said, “Sheriff, you’re digging a hole for yourself and it’s six feet deep. Kurt won’t be arrested for killing Mad Dog and he won’t allow you to shutter the Green Buddha. And you know all about Luke. He doesn’t like you, Custer, so get ready to make your last stand.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jess Casey saw a way to head off at least one of his troubles. Despite his weariness, he buckled on his gun and headed for the Alhambra, a middle-of-the-road saloon that served a free lunch every day except Sunday.

  The moon rode high, lighting up the crowded boardwalks for the jostling sporting crowd. A shabby man wearing a preacher’s suit and a prophet’s beard yelled that the end of the world was nigh and tried to hand out pamphlets but got few takers. Let the world end when it may, the damned of Hell’s Half Acre would keep on partying.

  The Alhambra was lit with gas lamps and the place was crowded except for a deserted half circle in the middle of the bar where a lone man stood, a long-barreled Colt in his hand. The fellow was short and flashily dressed, and wore his shiny, slicked-down hair parted in the middle. A pencil-thin mustache, calculated to draw the eye-fluttering attention of the fairer sex, graced his upper lip and was further accentuated by prominent front teeth. Jess pegged him as a nasty piece of work, a dedicated ladies’ man suddenly way out of his depth. Such a man should not make death threats against Luke Short.

  Jess smiled and stepped toward him. “You must be Banjo Tom Van Meter,” he said.

  “Stay back,” Van Meter said. “I’ll kill any man who comes within arm’s length of me.”

  “No, you won’t,” Jess said.

  “You just see if I won’t,” Van Meter said. He raised the Colt to waist level. “Another step and I’ll cut you down.” His buckteeth gave him a pronounced lisp.

  “Mister, I’m tired, hungry and irritable and I don’t need this tonight,” Jess said. “Just put the cannon on the bar and we’ll talk like kissin’ kin.”

  The little man tensed. Gaslight gleamed on his patent leather hair. “I can drill ya from here,” he said.

  “And then you’ll hang,” Jess said. He looked at the men at the bar who were crowded around enjoying the show. “Will you men see to it?”

  “You can count on us, Sheriff,” a beefy man said, a promise that drew growls of approval.

  “You got a decision to make, Banjo Tom,” Jess said.

  Tears filled Van Meter’s eyes. “This is all Luke Short’s fault,” he said. “I took his woman and now he aims to kill me.” More tears fell and the little man was racked by great, shuddering sobs. “I want Lulu. Somebody bring my Lulu here.”

  “Oh hell,” Jess said. He strode to Van Meter and yanked the gun from his hand. “You’re out of here. Go home and sleep it off.”

  He pulled the little man away from the bar, spun him around and gave him an ass-and-collar exit out the door. Then, after a farewell kick to Van Meter’s butt, Jess yelled, “And stay the hell away from Luke Short, and send him his woman back.”

  The crowd spilled outside to see if there was going to be fun, but Banjo Tom, rubbing his butt, vanished into the crowded street. Jess tossed the Colt to the beefy man. “Give him that when he sobers up. Tell him to hang it on the wall and stick to his banjo. He isn’t cut out to be a shootist.”

  That last drew cheers and offers of a drink, but Jess declined and took to the boardwalk. He stopped at a street vendor’s cart and bought a meat pie that he ate right there and then returned to his office.

  That night Jess dreamed of Mad Dog Rankin and of little Chinese men smoking pipes, all but one who played a banjo. Then Kurt Koenig appeared and his tawny mane made him look like a lion. The big cat opened its great maw of a mouth, its fangs glistening, and stalked toward Jess and it roared and roared . . .

  Jess woke up with a start, his heart hammering as fear spiked at him. Dawn light filtered through the office windows and outside two men with tangled wagons roared at each other and threatened imminent fisticuffs.

  Jess rose, put on his hat and padded to the door in his underwear. He yelled at the drivers to pipe down and to get their wagons rolling because they were blocking the street.

  Later as he built his first cigarette of the day his hands still shook. As visions of Mad Dog, smoking Chinamen, roaring lions and Kurt Koenig cleared his sleep-fogged brain he put his bad dream down to eating a meat pie so late in the day . . .

  But deep in his gut he knew that wasn’t the reason.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ford Talon knew that what was left of the two hundred dollars he’d taken from Herb Coffin’s body would not last long. He’d no wish to remain in Fort Worth. In fact he wanted a heap of git between him and Texas, but for that he needed a grubstake.

  Raised a gentleman by a doting mother and wealthy father, he had never had to turn his hand to work and was ill suited for manual labor. The only trade he’d learned in Huntsville was how to make little rocks out of big rocks and there wasn’t much call for that in Fort Worth.