Death Rides Alone Page 3

  “How in blazes do I know that?” the marshal asked as he came farther into the barn. His face was broad and florid, with the bulbous nose of a drinker. He went on, “I come in here and find ol’ Fred tied up and one stranger about to skewer another stranger with a pitchfork. Maybe I oughta just shoot the both of you.”

  “That might simplify your life, but it would be the wrong thing to do. If you’ll allow me to reach into my saddlebags, I can show you the wanted poster on this man. Not only that, if you’ll remove Mr. Crandall’s gag, I’m sure he’ll be glad to tell you that we were the ones who were attacked.”

  “We’ll just see about both of those things. You stand right there where you are.”

  The marshal moved over to the stool where Crandall was perched with his hands tied behind his back and a dirty rag stuffed into his mouth. The lawman pulled the gag out, and Crandall started spitting. He kept that up for several seconds, then glared toward Tyler.

  “That fella is tellin’ you the truth, Marshal,” he said. “The varmint on the ground is the one what caused the trouble. He must’a snuck in the back while me and that hombre in black were talkin’, then he jumped out and walloped him on the head with a shovel.”

  The marshal frowned and didn’t look convinced. He said, “I need some names here.”

  “My name is Luke Jensen,” Luke introduced himself. He pointed at the fugitive. “That’s Judd Tyler. He’s wanted in White Fork, Montana, for murdering a young woman.”

  Tyler had gotten enough of his senses back to respond to that charge. He pushed himself up on an elbow and said, “That’s a damned lie!”

  “Like I said, Marshal, I can prove it if you’ll let me show you that wanted poster.”

  The lawman continued to frown for a moment, like maybe thinking didn’t come that easy for him, but then he jerked his head in a nod and told Luke, “Go ahead and get it. But try anything funny and I’ll blow your head off.”

  Luke’s gray hadn’t spooked during the ruckus. It had stood stolidly during the shoot-out in the street a short time earlier, too. Luke liked that about the horse.

  He unfastened one of the saddlebags, reached inside, and brought out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and held it out to the marshal.

  Lowering the shotgun, the lawman stepped forward and took the wanted poster from Luke. He studied it for a long moment, moving his lips a little as he read. Then he looked down at Judd Tyler.

  “You’ll see that the horse in that stall over there matches the description on the poster,” Luke said, pointing at the paint, “and Mr. Crandall can confirm that Tyler is the one who rode it into town yesterday.”

  “He sure as blazes did,” the old liveryman said. “Now, is somebody gonna get these dadblasted ropes off’a me? It’s mighty uncomfortable, bein’ tied up like this.”

  The marshal grunted, handed the reward dodger back to Luke, and said, “All right, Jensen, why don’t you give Fred a hand? I’ll keep an eye on Tyler.”

  “Make it a close eye,” Luke said. “He’s tricky.”

  “Huh. Bein’ tricky when there’s a shotgun pointed at you don’t get you anything except a load of buckshot.”

  Luke went behind Crandall and quickly untied the ropes around the old man’s wrists. As Crandall was flexing his newly freed arms and muttering, Luke asked, “Did you see what he did with my guns and knife?”

  “Dropped ’em over yonder in that feed bin.”

  Luke retrieved the weapons. He felt better when he was armed again. He kept his right-hand Remington out. He found his hat, which had been knocked off when Tyler clouted him with the shovel, and clapped it back on his head, wincing a little at the pressure on the goose egg that had risen where he was hit.

  “I assume you can lock up Tyler in your jail, Marshal?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’d be all right. Name’s Donovan, by the way. Chet Donovan.”

  “I noticed telegraph wires leading into town. I hope you won’t mind sending a message to White Fork, Marshal, to let the authorities know that Tyler is in custody here. And that I’m the one who captured him, of course.”

  “Of course,” Donovan said. “Wouldn’t want to forget that, would we . . . bounty hunter?”

  “Perhaps it’s not an honorable profession in the minds of many . . . but it is an honest one.”

  “Whatever you say.” Donovan jerked the shotgun’s twin barrels at Tyler and went on, “Get up, mister.”

  Tyler climbed to his feet. He seemed a little shaky from the pounding he had taken, but his voice was firm and clear as he looked at Luke and said, “I meant it when I said that was a damned lie, you know.”

  “You mean about you being wanted in Montana?”

  “I mean about killing Rachel Montgomery. I never did it, Jensen. I didn’t kill her.”

  Marshal Donovan made a disgusted noise in his throat and said, “Every killer claims the same thing, I reckon. Get movin’. You’re goin’ behind bars where you belong.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Luke left the gray at the livery stable with Fred Crandall’s promise to take good care of the animal, then accompanied Marshal Donovan and Judd Tyler to Bent Creek’s jail.

  A squat, stone building housed both the marshal’s office and a small cell block. Donovan prodded the prisoner into one of the cells and slammed the barred door after him.

  “There,” the lawman said with some satisfaction. “He ain’t goin’ anywhere, the dirty killer.”

  Tyler let out a weary sigh and said, “I didn’t—”

  Donovan held up a hand to stop him.

  “You might as well not waste your breath, kid. I can read. I saw what that wanted poster says.”

  “Just because it’s printed on a wanted poster doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “I never saw one yet that wasn’t.”

  Luke could have pointed out that the marshal was wrong. Not every man whose name and description turned up on a wanted poster was really an outlaw. His own brother Smoke had had paper out on him at one time, but it had been issued by a crooked sheriff who wanted Smoke dead.

  Just in general, though, Donovan was right. Luke had no doubt of Judd Tyler’s guilt.

  “Marshal, I’m wet, I’m covered with mud and who knows what else, and I’d like nothing more right now than to wash up and get into some clean clothes,” he said. “I’ll leave Tyler in your care, and I’m obliged to you for your help.”

  “He ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Donovan said again. “Nobody’s ever busted outta this jail. Of course, I ain’t had too many murderers locked up in it.”

  Tyler looked like he wanted to say something, but then he just shook his head and went over to the bunk bolted to the wall to sit down with a sigh.

  Luke and Donovan went out into the marshal’s office. Luke said, “You’ll take care of sending that wire for me? I’m sure the law in White Fork will want to hear the news that Tyler’s in custody from the proper authorities here.”

  “Sure, but I got to warn you, there ain’t no direct line from here to there. I’ll have to wire Cheyenne, and they’ll route it around some way to get the message to Montana. I wouldn’t expect to hear back before tomorrow mornin’ at the earliest.”

  “Tomorrow will be fine,” Luke said.

  “You understand, too, I ain’t takin’ responsibility for this prisoner. I don’t think there’s a chance in hell of him gettin’ out, but if something happens and he does, don’t come cryin’ to me about your blood money.”

  “A lawman’s natural animosity toward bounty hunters was bound to crop up eventually, I suppose. Don’t worry, Marshal. I appreciate your help and the use of your jail, but we’ll consider Tyler my prisoner, not yours.”

  Donovan nodded curtly and said, “That’s the way it’ll be, then.”

  Luke left the jail, but before he did, he glanced into the cell block one more time. Tyler was still sitting on the bunk, shoulders slumped, head drooped forward, the very picture of despair. There wasn’t an ounce of defiance in him, Luke thought . . . which made Tyler a little different from most of the outlaws he dealt with.

  He hoped that Tyler wouldn’t take it into his head to hang himself in the cell or find some other permanent way out of the fate that awaited him. That could complicate matters.

  But when you came right down to it, the wanted poster did say Dead or Alive.

  * * *

  The Hotel Beale was kind of a fancy name for a one-story, false-fronted building of raw lumber that had turned gray from the weather, Luke thought. The fella who owned it had probably named the place for himself, a hunch that was confirmed when the slick-haired gent behind the desk in the lobby introduced himself as Jefferson Beale and added, “The proprietor of this fine establishment, sir.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to come into your fine hotel in such a disreputable state, Mr. Beale,” Luke said as he replaced the quill pen in its holder after signing the registration book. “Would it be too much to hope that you have a place where a man can take a hot bath?”

  “Indeed we do,” Beale replied with a note of pride in his voice. He handed Luke a key from the board hanging on the wall behind the desk and went on, “You’ll be in Room Six, that’s right down this hallway to the left here, and if you go all the way to the other end of the hall, you’ll find a washroom with a tub. I’ll tell the boy who works for me to start heating some water. He can gather up your, ah, soiled clothing as well and take it to be cleaned.”

  “I’ll be very obliged to you for that, Mr. Beale. Do you have a dining room as well?”

  Beale shook his head and said, “No, but the Keystone Café is only two doors away and serves quite respectable food, as long as you’re not expecting the same quality of fare you’d find in, say, San Francisco.”

  Beale see
med to think that his hotel did compare to the hostelries you’d find in San Francisco, which Luke thought was a far cry from the truth, but he didn’t see any point in saying that to the man. He just nodded, said, “Thank you,” and headed down the hall to his room with his saddlebags slung over his shoulder, key in one hand, Winchester in the other.

  The room was furnished simply with a four-poster bed, a chair, a wardrobe, and a couple of throw rugs on the floor. It was clean, though, and the bed looked relatively comfortable.

  Luke stowed his gear in the room, propping the rifle in a corner and hanging his gunbelt with its attached holsters and the sheath for the knife over the back of the room’s single chair. He brushed his hat as clean as he could and hung it on a bedpost.

  Then, carrying one of the Remingtons in his right hand, he walked down the hall to the washroom, which was a shed-like affair with a galvanized metal tub sitting in the middle of it. A freckled, red-haired boy about twelve years old was pouring water from a bucket into the tub.

  “Howdy, mister,” he said. “The water’s just startin’ to get warmed up good. I’ll be back with more. You probably don’t want to get in there yet.” His eyes widened as his gaze landed on the gun in Luke’s hand. “You’re the fella who shot Tate Winslow and Dan Clevenger a while ago!”

  “That’s right,” Luke said.

  The boy’s young face creased in a scowl. He said, “They had it comin’. Tate kicked my dog once, really hard. And Freckles hadn’t done nothin’, didn’t even get in Tate’s way. He just felt like doin’ it, the sorry varmint.”

  “What happened to the dog?”

  “He’s all right. I was afraid for a while he was gonna die, but he got better. Still walks with a limp, though.”

  “I’m glad to hear that he made it. What’s your name, son?”

  “Hardy, sir. Hardy McCoy.”

  “Well, Hardy, if I had known that Tate was the sort who’d kick a boy’s dog for no reason, I might not have cut him as much slack as I did.”

  “I’m just glad he’s dead. He killed five men, and not a one of ’em deserved it.”

  “It sounds as if the world is better off without him,” Luke agreed solemnly.

  “I’ll fetch some more hot water.”

  Steam was curling from the surface of the water by the time Luke stepped into the tub and lowered himself all the way. He felt better almost instantly as the heat loosened some of the kinks in his muscles.

  He had pulled a three-legged stool over next to the tub and placed his Remington on it. Old habits died hard, and Luke intended to die the same way when his time finally came.

  Hardy brought in a couple of thick white towels and hung them on hooks on the other side of the tub. He said, “I’ll take those muddy duds of yours down to the Chinaman.”

  “Will the laundry be open this late?”

  “Oh, sure. Heathen Chinee don’t keep regular hours like normal folks. They work all the time.”

  “Industriousness is to be admired,” Luke said.

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah, I guess so.”

  Luke chuckled as Hardy gathered up the dirty clothes and went out.

  He wished he had thought to bring a cigar and some matches with him. There was nothing like a good smoke while soaking in a hot tub. He supposed he could send the boy to his room to fetch a cheroot when Hardy got back, but that seemed like too much trouble. Luke closed his eyes and just enjoyed the lassitude that crept over him instead.

  Several minutes later he heard a floorboard creak. Since Hardy was back, Luke supposed he could go ahead and ask him to get a cigar.

  “Hardy, if you wouldn’t mind—”

  The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked made Luke’s eyes snap open. His hand moved instinctively toward the gun on the stool, but a harsh voice ordered, “Don’t do it, you son of a bitch, or you’ll just die that much quicker!”

  Luke’s hand froze before it could close around the Remington’s ivory grips.

  Gloom had settled over the room. Lamps in wall sconces burned in the hallway, but not in here. The glow from the open doorway silhouetted the man who stood there but kept Luke from being able to make out any details about him.

  There was enough light to strike reflections from the barrel of the gun in the man’s fist, though. The weapon thrust forward, unmistakable in its menace.

  “I did five years in the Texas pen because of you, Smith,” the man went on. “Five years of hell! All because of some stolen cows and a damn bounty hunter.”

  “You’re the one who decided to steal those cows,” Luke said. He had absolutely no memory of what the man was talking about, but he had brought in a few rustlers from time to time, so he was sure the man was right and Luke had turned him over to the law.

  “I hear you’re usin’ a different name now,” the gunman went on. “That don’t matter. As soon as you walked into the Three of a Kind, I knew it was you, Smith.”

  “It’s true I once called myself Luke Smith. And it’s true I’m a bounty hunter. But if there’s no paper out on you now, friend, you don’t have anything to fear from me. You’ve come to Wyoming, made yourself a new start in life—”

  “Shut up! I’m not afraid of you. Every miserable day I spent in that hellhole, I swore to myself that I’d even the score with you if I ever got the chance.” The gun in the man’s hand shook a little from the depth of his rage. “Well, now’s my chance, and I’m gonna enjoy watchin’ you die—”

  “Hey, mister, what’re you—”

  That was Hardy’s voice from down the hall. The boy was back from the laundry and probably coming to see if Luke needed anything else. He couldn’t have expected to see a man with a gun standing in the doorway of the washroom.

  The gunman’s head jerked toward the boy, and the barrel of his revolver shifted in that direction as well. That instinctive reaction was his undoing.

  Luke’s hand moved like lightning, snatching up the Remington. The would-be killer snarled a curse and tried to bring his gun back into line, but it was too late.

  Flame spurted from the Remington’s long barrel as the roar of the shot filled the room. The bullet drove the man backward. He hit the wall on the opposite side of the hall, bounced off, and finally pulled the trigger of his gun, but the slug smacked into the floorboards at his feet. He crumpled into a heap.

  Luke was already on his feet by the time the man hit the floor. Water sluiced from his body as he stepped out of the tub. He kept the gun trained on the man who had wanted to kill him, but the hombre didn’t move and it appeared he never would again.

  “Holy cow!” Hardy yelled from the hall. “Are you all right in there, Mr. Jensen?”

  “I’m fine, Hardy,” Luke said as puddles began to form around his feet. “Run fetch the marshal, will you? And he’ll probably want to bring the undertaker with him, too.”

  Hardy poked his head around the corner of the doorway to stare at the sight of Luke standing there holding the Remington. He said, “I reckon you’re done with your bath, huh?”

  “The water was starting to cool off anyway,” Luke said with a shrug.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Let’s see,” Marshal Chet Donovan said. “You ain’t been in Bent Creek two full hours yet, and this is the third fella who’s tried to ventilate you and wound up dead his own self instead. I reckon this must be a pretty common thing for you, Jensen.”

  “More so than I’d like,” Luke said. “It’s a hazard of the job, I suppose. When you put men in prison for a living, some of them are going to get out eventually and carry a grudge.”

  “Huh. Imagine that. You wouldn’t have to worry about problems like that if you just killed ’em all and brung in their bodies. That’s what most bounty hunters do, ain’t it?”

  “I can only speak for myself, Marshal,” Luke said. “I don’t kill a man unless he forces me to it . . . or unless he becomes really annoying.”

  He was joshing about that last part, but Donovan looked like he believed him and Luke didn’t bother correcting the mistaken impression.

  Luke had dried off and dressed in his spare underwear, shirt, and trousers while he was waiting in the hotel’s washroom for the marshal to arrive. He had the Remington tucked into his waistband now, since his gun rig was still back in his room.