Dead Before Sundown Page 3

  “You might want to wait until you can check for broken glass before you put that back on,” he told Handlesman as he handed the jacket back to the second mate.

  Handlesman grunted. “I’ll do that.”

  Frank holstered his gun long enough to haul himself through the window. He drew it again as he turned back to give the burly ship’s officer a hand.

  If anything, this back room of the saloon was even darker than the alley outside. The blackness was relieved only by a faint line of light that seeped under the bottom of a door leading into the main room.

  As Frank looked at that line of light, he saw it pulse, brightening in time with the muzzle flashes from the guns going off on the other side of it. He gripped the Colt tightly and moved to the door. A second later he grasped the knob.

  Frank turned the knob and eased the door open. It opened inward, which meant he had a chance to look out into the saloon’s main room before anybody noticed him.

  From where he was, he could see along the area behind the bar. Three men crouched there, just as he’d thought. One wore the dirty apron of a bartender and had a head as bald as a cue ball. The other two sported somewhat shabby suits and derby hats. They looked like gamblers or whoremongers, maybe both.

  The important thing was that none of them was Salty Stevens. Frank couldn’t be absolutely sure the man they were trying to kill was Salty, but Frank’s gut told him it was pretty likely.

  He was about to step out and tell the men behind the bar to throw down their guns, when he suddenly realized that one of them looked familiar. It took Frank a moment to figure out where he had seen the man before and remember his name.

  One of the derby-hatted men was the brutish criminal known as Yeah Mow Hopkins. Hopkins had been one of Soapy Smith’s top henchmen back in Skagway the year before, and after Smith had been killed in a shootout with a vigilante, Hopkins had lit a shuck from the Alaskan settlement, along with some of Smith’s other men. If they had stayed, they would have risked being on the wrong end of a lynch rope.

  Seeing Hopkins made Frank more convinced than ever that Salty was behind that overturned table, which was starting to be pocked with bullet holes. If the old-timer had walked into Red Mike’s looking for a drink and recognized Hopkins as Frank had, his anger over being cleaned out by Smith’s gang might have prompted him to slap leather before he really thought about what he was doing.

  All the saloon’s other customers must have fled when the shooting started. The place was empty except for the four combatants—and Frank and Handlesman in the back room.

  Frank couldn’t afford to wait any longer. He pulled the door open wider and stepped out into the saloon’s main room, leveling the Colt as he bellowed, “Hold your fire! Drop those guns!”

  All three men jerked toward him. The bartender and the other man brought their guns up. Hopkins turned and fled toward the end of the bar.

  The would-be killers had called the tune, although they almost certainly didn’t realize that they were about to dance with the Drifter, one of the deadliest gunfighters around. Flame spouted from the Colt’s gun muzzle as Frank put a slug in the bartender’s chest.

  The bald man went over backward, crashing into the bottles on a shelf attached to the wall and upsetting them. The bottles fell and shattered, and the reek of spilled rotgut suddenly mingled with the stench of gunsmoke.

  The other man got a shot off, but it went wild, whipping harmlessly past Frank, who fired again. His bullet shattered the man’s right shoulder and knocked him to the floor, where he dropped his gun, clutched at the wound, and howled in pain.

  Meanwhile, Yeah Mow Hopkins tried to escape out the saloon’s front door, but he stumbled as the old Remington roared again. Hopkins threw a shot toward the table. The man hidden there fired yet again. Blood sprayed from Hopkins’s hip as the slug clipped him and sent him spinning off his feet.

  Frank lunged behind the bar and kicked away the gun that the second man had dropped. The bartender stared up out of lifeless eyes. He wasn’t a threat anymore.

  Handlesman had emerged from the back room, gun in hand. Frank told the second mate, “Keep an eye on this one,” as he nodded toward the man with the busted shoulder. He stepped out from behind the bar.

  “Frank? Is that you?”

  The slightly mush-mouthed voice came from behind the overturned table. Frank recognized it, just as he had expected to.

  “Yeah, it’s me, Salty,” he replied. He trained his gun on the fallen Yeah Mow Hopkins as he added, “You can come out from behind there now. Are you all right?”

  The old-timer stood up with the Remington in his hand. His battered hat had fallen off during the fracas, and his white hair was tangled.

  “I got a few nicks and scratches from all the splinters flyin’ around, but I ain’t hurt bad,” Salty said. “Them varmints threw a whole heap o’ lead, but none of it found me.”

  “That’s good.” Frank approached Hopkins cautiously. The man seemed to be in shock as he lay there on the sawdust-littered floor and bled from wounds in his hip and thigh, but Frank knew better than to take unnecessary chances. The barrel of his gun didn’t waver.

  Salty bent and picked up his hat. As he crammed it back on his head, he said, “You know who that fella is?”

  “Yeah, I recognize him,” Frank said.

  “That’s Yeah Mow Hopkins,” Salty said excitedly, as if he hadn’t heard Frank’s answer. “He worked for that bastard Soapy Smith!”

  “I remember. It looks like he recognized you, too.”

  “Naw, neither him nor Palmer knew me when I first come in,” Salty said as he joined Frank. He sounded a little sheepish as he went on. “I should’a turned right around and gone back to the ship to get you. But I got so mad when I thought about how that bunch stole all my money, so mad I reckon I wasn’t thinkin’ straight when I grabbed my hogleg and went to cussin’ ’em.”

  “I reckon not,” Frank said drily.

  “They knowed who I was after that and started shootin’. I didn’t figure I was gonna get out of here alive.”

  “You probably wouldn’t have if Meg hadn’t missed you and got me started looking for you,” Frank told him. “We heard the shooting going on in here, and I had a hunch I’d find you right in the middle of the festivities.”

  “I’m sure obliged for the help.” Salty toed Hopkins’s shoulder. “I just wish Palmer hadn’t gotten away when the shootin’ started.”

  “Joe Palmer was here, too, eh?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Didn’t see any more of them bastards who worked for Smith, though.”

  Hopkins opened his eyes and looked up at Frank and Salty. Pain twisted his face. “You … you crazy old son of a bitch!” he gasped.

  Salty hunkered next to the wounded man and put the Remington’s muzzle against Hopkins’s jaw.

  “I wouldn’t be mouthin’ off if I was you,” the old-timer warned as he pressed hard enough with the gun barrel to bring a groan of pain from Hopkins’s mouth.

  “I need … a doc,” he said. “You gotta patch me up … before I bleed to death.”

  “After all the hell you and the rest o’ your bunch raised, I reckon I could stay right here and watch you bleed to death without it botherin’ me all that much.”

  Frank didn’t blame Salty for feeling that way, but he couldn’t stand by and watch an injured man die. He was about to say as much when Hopkins stammered, “If … if you’ll help me … I’ll tell you where Joe went.”

  “I wouldn’t mind settlin’ the score with Palmer,” Salty said, “but I ain’t sure it’s worth—”

  Hopkins broke in, saying desperately, “He’s got your money, you loco old coot!”

  Chapter 4

  Salty’s eyes just about bulged from their sockets as what Hopkins had just said sunk in on him.

  “My money!” he repeated. “You mean—”

  “Not the same exact coins and greenbacks we took off’a you,” Hopkins grated through clenched teeth. “But w
hen we got outta Skagway two jumps ahead of those damned vigilantes, Joe and me managed to get our hands on a lot of the loot Soapy had cached. There’s more than what you lost, old man, a lot more.”

  Salty’s hand shot out and grabbed the front of Hopkins’s vest. He dragged the man up off the floor a little, which brought a pained cry from him.

  “Where’d he go?” Salty demanded. “Tell me how to find him, durn your sorry hide!”

  Hopkins’s lips stretched in an ugly grin. “I’ll tell you where to look for him … after you get me a sawbones.”

  Frank said, “The other fella behind the bar could use a doctor, too, Salty. Let’s get these men patched up, and then Hopkins can talk.”

  “How about he talks now, or I just blow his damn fool head off?”

  “If you do, you’ll never find your money,” Hopkins warned.

  Frank put a hand on Salty’s shoulder. “I understand how you feel, but you’re not a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “Wouldn’t be cold-blooded,” Salty muttered. “My blood’s plenty hot right now.” He sighed, took the gun away from Hopkins’s neck, and eased the hammer down. “But I reckon you’re right, Frank.”

  Frank looked over behind the bar. “How’s that man doing, Handlesman?”

  “He passed out, but he’s still alive,” the second mate answered. “Monroe!”

  The young sailor, who along with the other men from the Jupiter, had come closer to the saloon’s door when the shooting stopped, hurried in and asked, “Sir?”

  “Come here and put some pressure on this man’s shoulder so he doesn’t bleed to death,” Handlesman ordered.

  While Monroe did that, Frank asked Hopkins, “Where’s the doctor’s office?”

  “I ain’t sure. Joe and me haven’t been here that long.” Hopkins’s face had lost most of its color. “For God’s sake, go and find him. I’m dyin’ here!”

  “You may hurt like hell, but you’re not losing enough blood to die,” Frank told him. “Not right away, anyway. But if we were to let you lie there for an hour or so …”

  “I’ll tell you what I know, I swear it,” Hopkins said. “Just as soon as the doc’s tended to those bullet holes.”

  “I’ll go find the doctor,” Handlesman volunteered. “If I have to, I’ll fetch our ship’s doctor from the Jupiter. Come to think of it, that might be even quicker.”

  Frank nodded. “That’s a good idea. Go ahead.”

  Handlesman hurried out of Red Mike’s, leaving Frank and Salty to keep an eye on the wounded men, along with the other sailors.

  Salty told Hopkins, “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me now, just in case you’re hurt worse’n you think you are?”

  “Go to hell,” Hopkins muttered.

  Handlesman was back in ten minutes with the ship’s doctor, a lean, craggy-faced man named Johnston. He was about to check on Hopkins when Frank said, “The man behind the bar is hurt worse.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Hopkins protested.

  “The more you argue, the longer it’ll be before somebody tends to those wounds,” Frank told him.

  Hopkins subsided, muttering curses. Johnston went behind the bar and worked for quite a while on the injured man back there. When he came over to Frank and Salty again, he reported, “I think he’ll live, but he’ll never get much use out of that arm again.”

  “He shouldn’t have tried to use it to shoot me,” Frank said. He gestured toward Hopkins. “See what you can do for this varmint, Doc.”

  Johnston knelt beside Hopkins, cut away the man’s trousers to get at the wounds, and started cleaning them. Hopkins gritted his teeth and made groaning sounds through them as carbolic acid bit at the raw flesh on his hip and thigh.

  The wound on his hip was just a deep graze, messy and painful but not serious since it didn’t seem to have nicked the bone. The hole in his thigh went all the way through, again resulting in a lot of blood and misery but not posing a threat to his life. Johnston cleaned and bandaged both wounds.

  The only fatality was the bartender. Frank’s first shot had taken him cleanly in the heart.

  When the doctor was finished, Frank and Handlesman took hold of Hopkins’s arms and lifted him into a chair.

  “Time for you to keep your end of the bargain,” Salty said.

  Hopkins glared at him. “You took so damn long gettin’ me fixed up, I ought to not tell you.”

  “You’d better think twice about that,” Frank cautioned him. “We can always take you back to Skagway and let the folks there deal with you.”

  Hopkins frowned. He knew good and well how the citizens of Skagway would deal with him. It would involve a rope and a gallows.

  “Y’understand, I don’t know exactly where Joe is. But I know where we were going, and I’d bet that derby of mine he’s headed there right now, the dirty bastard. Runnin’ out and leavin’ me like that.”

  “Keep talking,” Frank said.

  Salty still had his Remington in his hand. His thumb rested on the hammer, ready to pull it back.

  “Calgary,” Hopkins said. “We were gonna cut across the mountains to Calgary. Joe said he knew some fellas there we could throw in with.”

  Frank had heard of the Canadian city but had never been there. Calgary was on the other side of the Rockies, at the edge of the Great Plains that extended from Canada down through the United States. Located not far north of Montana, it was a cowtown, Frank had heard, as wild in its early days as Abilene or Dodge City had been.

  The formation of the North West Mounted Police had tamed Calgary and the rest of western Canada, at least to a certain extent. But Frank was sure there were still plenty of lawless men in the region, so Hopkins was probably right. He and Joe Palmer would have been able to find some new partners, or set up some illegal operation of their own.

  Especially with the money they had stolen from Salty and the other citizens of Skagway to finance them.

  The old-timer said, “We got to go after him, Frank. I worked hard for that dinero. I thought I’d never see it again.”

  “We’ll talk about that,” Frank promised. “Right now we need to figure out what to do with Hopkins and that other fella.” He turned to Handlesman. “Do you know if there’s any law hereabouts?”

  “There might be some Mounties on patrol around here,” the second mate said. “On the other hand, there might not be. The closest garrison is down at Vancouver.”

  “Do you think Captain Beswick could be persuaded to take Hopkins to Seattle and turn him over to the authorities there?”

  Handlesman rubbed his heavy jaw as he frowned in thought. “I don’t know. This is Canada. The Jupiter‘s an American ship.”

  “It was an American that Hopkins was trying to kill,” Frank said with a nod toward Salty. “Anyway, Hopkins is wanted in Alaska, and that’s an American territory. He’s probably got warrants out for him in Colorado and other places, too. That’s where Soapy Smith and his bunch were before they went north to Alaska.”

  “I suppose it can’t hurt to ask him,” Handlesman said. “What about the other fella?”

  Frank shook his head. “I don’t even know his name. We’ll leave him here. He probably has friends who’ll take care of him.”

  “What about us?” Salty asked. “We’re goin’ after Palmer, ain’t we?”

  “We’ll talk about that back on the ship,” Frank said.

  “What were you thinking, sneaking off like that?” Meg asked Salty with a scolding tone in her voice as if she was his mother, rather than young enough to be his granddaughter.

  “Aw, shoot, I don’t know,” Salty replied. His leathery old face wore a hangdog expression. “I heard music, and it sounded like folks was havin’ fun. And I hadn’t had a drink in so long…. I wasn’t gonna go off on a bender, I can promise you that. Them days is over.”

  Frank wasn’t completely sure they were, but he and Meg couldn’t watch Salty all the time. Sooner or later the old-timer had to be responsible for his own actions.

/>   The three of them were in Meg’s cabin on the Jupiter. She had been waiting for them on deck when they got back to the ship. Handlesman had already told her that Frank and Salty were all right, when he came to get the doctor for the two wounded men.

  Yeah Mow Hopkins was locked up in the Jupiter’s tiny brig. Captain Beswick had agreed, reluctantly, to deliver him to the law when the ship reached Seattle.

  The question now was, what were Frank and Salty going to do?

  “I’m sure sorry for all the trouble I caused,” Salty went on, “but if I hadn’t snuck ashore and gone to that saloon, I wouldn’t have spotted those two varmints. It was just pure-dee luck. Either that, or an omen tellin’ us to go after Palmer and get my dang money back.”

  “We’d have to track him across the Rocky Mountains,” Frank pointed out. “That’s mighty rugged country. We might not be able to catch up to him until we got to Calgary.”

  “I don’t care how long it takes.” Salty glared determinedly. “I’ll go after the dang skalleyhooter by myself if I have to, by grab!”

  Frank chuckled. “Take it easy. I never said I wouldn’t go with you. I’m just saying it’s liable to be a hard chase.”

  “I’m up to it,” Salty insisted. “I’ve traipsed hell-west and crosswise all over the frontier in my time. I can ride all night and fight all day if’n I have to.”

  Frank didn’t doubt it. Salty might be old, but he was tough as whang leather. Sort of like Frank himself.

  “We’ll have to get some horses and pack animals,” Meg put in.

  Frank and Salty both turned to look at her. “What makes you think you’re goin’?” Salty asked.

  “I figured you’d stay on the ship and go on to Seattle,” Frank added. “You can wait for us there.”

  “You figured wrong,” Meg shot back at him without hesitation.

  “Didn’t you hear what I was telling Salty about how hard the trip might be?”

  “We were all going to Mexico together. That’s still the plan as far as I’m concerned. This is just a little … side trip, I guess you could say.”