The Wicked Die Twice Read online

  “We’re gonna kill you slow, Larsen.” Chaney shifted his gaze from the young marshal to Two Whistles, still sitting in the Windsor chair and holding the double-barreled Parker straight up from his right thigh. “And the old man, too. Real slow. The whole town is gonna hear you two wail before they get what’s comin’ to them, too!”

  Larsen glanced at his old deputy. Two Whistles gave a taut half smile. He was putting on a brave face, but Larsen saw the lie in it. Only a few months ago, Henry had been slinging hash out at the Crosshatch. He’d done that for the last ten years. Larsen himself had been repairing fences and shifting beef on the hoof from one pasture to another, and burning brands into dirty hides every spring.

  Now here they both were, holding three savage killers for the U.S. marshal in Denver. Three of the nastiest killers Larsen turned to Chaney and said, “Look . . . about that, uh . . . the other day. I didn’t mean for it to . . .”

  He let his voice trail off when the front door of his office opened suddenly.

  CHAPTER 7

  Larsen whipped his head around, half suspecting that the rest of the three killers’ gang was here to bust their brethren out of the lockup.

  The young marshal felt a brief relief when he saw his pretty wife poke her blond head into the office. Her cornflower-blue eyes twinkled when they landed on Larsen himself. The former Tiffanie Bright wore a sun-yellow day dress with a matching felt hat that complemented the gold curls of her hair tumbling across her slender shoulders. In her white-gloved hands, she clutched the handle of a wicker basket covered with a red-and-white checked oilcloth.

  “Glenn, honey, when you didn’t come home for lunch, I thought I’d bring a basket over here for both you and Henry. I know how . . .”

  She let her voice trail off as Talon Chaney put his blunt face up close to the bars of his cell door and gave a high, shrill whistle of appreciation. “Good Lord, Marshal—is that your gal?”

  Black Pot howled, then pressed his own hawk-nosed face up close to the bars. He stuck his tongue through the bars and waggled it lasciviously.

  “Now, that there, gentlemen,” intoned Hell-Raisin’ Frank Beecher, “is a balm to these sore eyes and battered soul. Come closer, honey—let me get a better look at you. I do declare, you’re purty as a summer peach!”

  “An’ just as ripe!” added Black Pot.

  “Oh, she’s fine, Marshal,” Chaney whooped. “You did right well for yourself. Look at that!”

  Larsen hurried over to his young wife, meeting her a few feet in front of the door. “Tiffanie, my God,” he said, grabbing her shoulders and gently pushing her back toward the door. “What’re you doing here? I told you not to come over here. At least, not while . . .”

  “Glenn, honey,” the young woman protested, “you didn’t come home for lunch like you said you would, like you always do . . .”

  When Larsen got Tiffanie ushered back out the door and onto the small boardwalk fronting the small, stone jailhouse building, he drew the door closed behind him. He could still hear the yips and yowls issuing from the cells inside the building.

  “Come back in here, little lady,” Black Pot called. “Let’s see what kinda goodies you’re packin’ !”

  “Them’s the marshal’s goodies, Black Pot, you cad!” remonstrated Beecher in his oddly effeminate voice.

  “I don’t see no reason why the marshal shouldn’t share!” Chaney howled.

  A collective roar of laughter pressed against the door behind Larsen.

  “Honey,” Larsen said, frowning down at his young wife, whose pale cheeks had turned as red as apples, “I told you those men were savages. I didn’t want you to see . . . or hear that.”

  “I’m sorry, Glenn, but when you didn’t come home . . . Glenn, you have to eat something. You haven’t been eating; you haven’t been sleeping. Not since you threw those three . . . animals . . . in your jail. It’s not healthy, Glenn!”

  “I’m sorry I missed lunch, Tiff. I reckon I got distracted.” Larsen scowled at the closed door behind him. “I meant to be home at noon sharp. You certainly didn’t need to . . .”

  “Oh, Glenn, I wanted to bring you and Henry something. Poor Henry’s probably getting as little sleep as you are, and he has no one to cook for him.”

  “I tell you what,” Larsen said, glancing at the door again, glad that the prisoners inside had piped down a little, “let’s you and me go on home and eat this fine lunch of yours in that swing out back.” Smelling the succulent aromas of the fried chicken wafting up from beneath the oilcloth, the young marshal led his young wife east along the street, in the direction of their neat little house. “When we’re done, I’ll bring Henry his share and give him some time off to eat it. You know how he likes to eat his lunches down by the creek.”

  By “the creek,” Larsen had meant Dry Fork Creek that ran along behind the jailhouse. It was mostly just a sandy, gravelly arroyo except during the springtime snowmelt, but it was filled with shrubs that the birds liked to flutter around in, and Henry liked to watch the birds and hear them sing.

  They didn’t see much after that, until they were safely ensconced in their backyard, behind their little frame house on the corner of Main Street and Third, which was practically the far east end of Dry Fork. The town didn’t sprawl much beyond a single square mile, if that. The yard had several small transplanted trees and shrubs, offering some privacy from the other, mostly log shacks and sheds flanking it, haphazardly situated on their own trash-strewn lots. Beyond those shacks and sheds was wide-open, gently rolling prairie on which Larsen could hear coyotes yammering every morning and evening.

  Tiffanie, uncharacteristically dour, set a leg of fried chicken, a hardboiled egg, and a dill pickle on his plate.

  Larsen didn’t feel much like eating, but for his wife’s sake he made himself bite into the leg, which was crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside, cooked exactly how he liked it. Still, because of his own dark mood, the meat tasted like boot leather. Sitting beside his wife on the little love seat swing that he had built himself and hung from an oak branch with two strong ropes, just outside their backdoor, the young lawman glanced at his pretty wife.

  “I’m sorry for forgetting to come home for lunch, Tiff,” he said gently, chewing, then taking a sip of his coffee. She had set the pot and two cups on a small table fronting the swing. “I reckon those three devils just got me distracted, is all. Besides, I sorta hate to leave Henry alone with them. Afraid he might go to sleep, an’ . . .”

  Tiffanie swung around to him, her golden curls flying. “Oh, Glenn, I’m not angry at you!”

  “You’re not?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Well, you haven’t said two words since we left the jail—”

  “Glenn, I’m just so worried for you! Those men are . . . well, they’re savages! More wolf than man!”

  Larsen set his half-eaten chicken leg down on his plate and wrapped his left arm around his wife’s shoulders, drawing her close against him. “It’s only for another day or so, Tiff.” He pressed his lips against her head. “The deputy U.S. marshals should be getting here from Denver any ole day now. They’ll haul those savages away in cuffs and leg irons, and then we’ll be done with them.”

  “Until the next batch comes along.”

  “Oh, no . . . now, Tiffanie. This is a quiet, little town, all in all.”

  Tiffanie stared down at her plate. Larsen saw that she hadn’t eaten even as much of her lunch as he’d eaten of his. “Glenn . . . ?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “What would you think about quitting the marshal’s job? No, wait!” Before Glenn could open his mouth to object, Tiffanie turned to him with her anguished blue eyes and placed two fingers against his lips. “Let me finish.”

  Larsen pulled his mouth corners down.

  “Why don’t you accept my father’s offer and go to work for him in his mercantile store?”

  “Ah, Tiffanie, I’m no shopkeeper.”

  “Oh, Gl
enn, you’re no lawman, either!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m wearing this star right here.” Larsen brushed his thumb against the five-pointed, nickel chased badge on his shirt. “That means I’m the law, Tiffanie!”

  “Oh, you know what I mean, Glenn. You’re a cowpuncher. A ranch hand. You’re . . .”

  “You mean I’m weak,” Larsen finished for her, anger growing in him, a feeling he didn’t like one bit. He’d rarely felt anything but unrestrained love for his bride, and he hated the burn of animosity he felt growing at her stinging words. Words that had lashed him deep—deep down to the core of his manhood.

  She squeezed his arm. “Not at all! That’s not what I meant!”

  “Yes, it is.” Feeling like a sulky schoolboy, Larsen crossed his arms and stared down at the plate on his lap. “What’s worse . . . I fear you’re right.”

  “Oh, Glenn, that’s not what I meant. You’re a good, nice man. A very polite young man. A lawman needs to be . . . he needs to be, well . . .”

  “Go ahead and say it—a lawman needs to be tough. He needs to be fearless.”

  “You are tough and fearless.”

  “Oh, stop patronizing me, Tiffanie. You know that ain’t true. I know it most of all. I’ve never felt so weak and terrified in my whole life.” He swung his right boot forward and kicked a rock. “Hell, every time I look at that damn Talon Chaney, all my insides shrivel up in a big ole ball in my belly.”

  Tiffanie clutched his arm again, squeezing tighter. “Whose wouldn’t? Like I said, he’s more wolf than man!”

  “I gotta ride it out, Tiff.” Larsen kicked another rock. “I’m sorry, Tiffanie. You married the wrong man, I reckon. I gotta see this through. I gotta keep the job for at least a year. Then . . . who knows . . . ?” He smiled weakly. “Maybe I’ll grow a spine by then, and men like them in that jail won’t turn my knees to putty. If not, I’ll accept your pa’s generous offer. I’ll become a shopkeeper.”

  “Oh, Glenn,” Tiffanie said. “I married just the right man for me.” She turned full around to face him, reached up, and slid a lock of his longish light brown hair back from his right cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about quitting your job. I love you, honey. My love is unconditional and undying. Because of that, you and I will both get through this. Together.”

  She smiled, showing all her snow-white teeth, then, holding both their plates so they wouldn’t tumble from their laps, she stretched up to plant a warm, heartfelt kiss on her husband’s cheek.

  Glenn Larsen suddenly felt better about everything.

  Until, that was, the back door of the house opened and Talon Chaney poked his granite-like head out into the yard, his eyes popping wide as he exclaimed, “Hello there, lovebirds! Can we join the party?”

  * * *

  Earlier, just after Glenn Larsen left the jailhouse with his lovely wife, Henry Two Whistles rose angrily from his chair. He faced the three laughing and hollering savages, and said, “Shut up!”

  They didn’t seem to hear him. They kept laughing and howling.

  Two Whistles stomped his high-topped, mule-eared boot on the floor. “Shut up, I said. Shut up, damn you!”

  That time they heard him. They all looked at him, sobering gradually.

  Talon Chaney arched his brows in surprise. “Well, well, the old dog-eater done told us to shut up, fellas. I reckon we’d better do as he says, since he’s wielding that big ole Parker an’all.” He slid his eyes to the big, braided half-breed in the cell beside his own. “Uh . . . B.P., you don’t mind me callin’ one of your own a dog-eater, do ya?”

  “Nah, that’s all right,” said Black Pot, grinning, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “I won’t take it personal.” He snickered.

  Two Whistles kept his face stony, but he felt angrier than he thought he’d ever felt before. He kept remembering the look on young Tiffanie Larsen’s face when those three prisoners had started laying into her with their goatish comments and insults. He doubted the poor girl, brought up right in a good family, had ever been confronted with talk like that in her entire life.

  Two Whistles planted the shotgun’s butt plate on his hip. He walked over to the desk, removed the ring of keys from the second drawer down on the desk’s right side, and walked over to Talon Chaney’s cell. He looked at Chaney, who stood about two feet back from the door, staring at him skeptically.

  “What, uh . . . what’s goin’ on?” the prisoner asked.

  Two Whistles poked the key in the lock. His hand shook. He looked at Chaney. He glanced at Black Pot, then at Frank Beecher. Both men stood in their cells facing Two Whistles, scowling curiously at the old Indian deputy.

  The old man knew he shouldn’t do what he was about todo, but his fury was a raging fire within him. He was tired of these three killers. He was tired of them for both himself as well as for his young friend, Glenn Larsen. He was tired of them for all of the citizens of Dry Fork, most of whom he knew were sleeping little better than himself and Glenn, wondering if the human wolves would bust out of this little jail and go on one of their savage rampages.

  It was time to shut them up once and for all.

  He gritted his teeth as he turned the key in the lock. The bolt ground back into the door. The door hinges squawked as the door hung loose in its frame.

  “What’re you doin’, you old dog-eater?” Chaney asked, smiling uncertainly.

  “Gonna give you a chance.”

  Two Whistles stepped straight back. He opened the outside door, leaving it standing wide so that a rectangle of buttery midday light angled into the office. The deputy broke open his shotgun and plucked out one of the wads. He held up the wad to show the three prisoners. He dropped the wad, which plunked onto the jailhouse’s rough stone floor and rolled around beside the old deputy’s right boot.

  He snapped the Parker closed, then walked over and sat down in the swivel chair at Larsen’s cluttered desk. He turned to face the three prisoners standing just inside their cells. He turned again, leaned the shotgun against the desk, to his right, then turned back to face the prisoners.

  “There’s your chance.” Two Whistles gave a grim smile, slitting his dark, angry eyes. “Go ahead.” He canted his head toward the sunlight. “Make a run for the door. You have a chance. I’m old and slow. I only got one wad. If you can make it, you’re free. One by one, you’re free.”

  Black Pot said in a high-pitched, wheedling voice, “Wha-at?”

  “Chaney first,” Two Whistles said. “Then Black Pot. Then Beecher. One by one. I’m giving you a chance.”

  All three prisoners stared at him through their cell doors.

  He could tell they were thinking about it.

  Could they run fast enough? Could they outrun the old man’s slow reflexes?

  Could they outrun buckshot?

  Two Whistles stared at Chaney, who had now moved up to squeeze the bars of his cell door in his hands. He grinned with challenge through the bars at the old deputy, head down, his chin resembling a stone spade. His brown eyes were wide and round and glassy.

  “Go ahead.” Two Whistles canted his head toward the open door. “Give it a try.” He smiled again. “What’s the matter, Chaney? You afraid of this old dog-eater?”

  Chaney stared back at him with the same expression as before.

  “Go ahead,” Beecher whispered from his own cell. “Make a run for it, amigo!”

  Black Pot just stared at Chaney, grinning expectantly. He was making a soft, hissing sound through his rotten teeth.

  Chaney opened and closed his fingers around the bars of his unlocked cell door. He stared at Two Whistles. The old deputy stared back at him, his challenging grin remaining on his lips.

  Finally, Chaney stopped opening and closing his hands. He jerked them back, pulling the door closed, latching it.

  “Not this time, old man,” he said, scowling angrily now, knowing he’d been made to look the coward.

  A figure moved in the doorway to Two Whi
stles’s right. He turned to see Eddie Black step into the jailhouse, carrying a large wooden tray covered with a blue-and-white checked oilcloth. Eddie looked at Two Whistles and said, “Dinnertime, Henry.”

  “About time!” Black Pot complained. “My belly feels like a big rat’s been gnawin’ on it!”

  Eddie hiked a shoulder as he started into the room. “Café’s been busy. Ma MacDonald said prisoner food comes last.”

  “Oh, she did, did—”

  Talon Chaney cut himself off abruptly.

  Two Whistles had just gained his feet to let Eddie feed his prisoners, but now, following Chaney’s surprised, delighted gaze, he turned to the door. His heart banged against his ribs.

  Two men had just dashed through the open office door. The second man slammed the door with a bang! The first man ran up and grabbed Eddie Black from behind, raising a pistol to the swamper/gopher’s head and clicking the hammer back.

  Eddie screamed and dropped the tray.

  The man behind him shouted, “Drop the thunder stick, old man, or he buys a bullet!”

  CHAPTER 8

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Pecos said, his voice quavering with the jolts of the jail wagon. “You’re too damn quiet. You been too damn quiet for two whole days now and it’s continued way too deep into the third one!”

  Slash, sitting beside his long-time partner on the jail wagon’s leather-padded driver’s seat, turned to the bigger man as he exhaled smoke from the quirley he’d taken his time building and had just lit a minute ago. Slash frowned beneath the brim of his black Stetson. “Say what?”

  “You haven’t insulted me in over an hour. In fact, I don’t think you’ve said anything since noon when you said, ‘Hey, Ugly—stop the wagon. I gotta water a sage bush.’”

  “So?”

  “Something’s wrong. You’re brooding about something.”

  “No, I ain’t.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I ain’t. Leave me alone. I wanna smoke in peace.”