Twelve Dead Men Page 7

  * * *

  Dolly Redding rose up on tiptoes to peer over the shoulder of one of the men who stood at the front windows of the Melodian watching avidly as Marshal Dixon, Deputy Soriano, and the two Jensens escorted their prisoner past the saloon toward the jail. She caught her breath as she saw Pete striding along, his face mottled in rage but apparently unharmed.

  A buzz of excited conversation filled the big room. Fontana had been singing when a man had run in and said excitedly that it sounded like a war had broken out down at José’s cantina. The tune issuing from the piano had trailed off as Orrie quit playing. Men gathered around the bearer of the news, and when they pressed him, he admitted there had been only three shots, but that was enough to generate quite a bit of excitement. Some of them had been talking about heading down there to see what was going on.

  Suddenly, one of them looked out the window and exclaimed, “Here comes Marshal Dixon with a prisoner! By the Lord Harry, it looks like Pete McLaren!”

  That caused a stampede to the windows and the entrance. Some of the customers went out on the boardwalk to watch while others peered over the batwings and through the glass.

  Fontana Dupree came up beside Dolly. “Well, you ought to be relieved. Now he can’t bother you anymore, at least as long as the marshal’s got him behind bars. I hope it’s a good long time.”

  “What? Oh . . . Oh, right,” Dolly said. “Pete won’t be able to bother me anymore.”

  Fontana looked at the blonde, eyes narrowing. “Wait a minute. Are you upset that Pete’s under arrest?”

  “Why would I be? He . . . he’s nothin’ but a troublemaker. Always has been.”

  “Yeah, but I know that look in a girl’s eyes,” Fontana said. “You’re sweet on him, no matter how bad he treats you, aren’t you?”

  Dolly tossed her curly hair and sniffed. “You’re loco. Marshal Dixon can lock him up and throw away the key, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Uh-huh,” Fontana said, clearly skeptical.

  Dolly came up on her toes and looked outside again, but the group of men had moved on and was no longer in sight. She sighed. Pete was a bastard, no doubt about that. But Lord help her, he had the touch that reached out to something inside her, something that already longed for him even though he wasn’t locked up yet.

  She hoped the marshal wouldn’t keep him behind bars for too long. She wasn’t sure she could stand that.

  * * *

  Lee Emory was waiting on the boardwalk in front of the marshal’s office when they got there.

  Dixon asked, “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Covering a story for the newspaper, of course. It’s not every day that the town’s biggest troublemaker gets arrested. What did he do, Marshal?”

  “That ain’t a matter of public record yet. Court’s an open proceedin’. You can show up tomorrow and see him charged like anybody else.”

  Emory smiled. “I’m a newspaperman, Marshal. I have other sources. For example, I saw Dr. Bellem hurrying toward the other end of town with his medical bag. He and I are good friends.”

  “All right, all right.” Dixon jerked his head toward the door. “Come on in.”

  Ace opened the door and went in first, his gun drawn. Miguel prodded McLaren through the opening next with the shotgun at his back.

  As McLaren stepped past Emory, he glared at the editor. “You write a bunch of garbage about me and you’ll be sorry, mister.”

  “You ain’t in no position to be handin’ out threats,” Dixon said. “Keep movin’.”

  Some of the other bystanders tried to crowd into the marshal’s office after them, but Dixon shut the door in their faces. Miguel took McLaren on into the cell block.

  Dixon told Emory, “Pete and those no-account friends of his jumped the Jensen brothers here and tried to hand ’em a beatin’ to pay them back for that scrape in the Melodian last night. Only they hadn’t counted on Ace and Chance bein’ such wildcats.”

  Emory looked at Ace and Chance. “Sounds like I definitely need to interview you fellows. But then what happened, Marshal?”

  “McLaren ran off when things didn’t go his way. I tracked him down at José’s. The Mex and Otis McLaren used to ride together years ago, you know.”

  “Yes, I believe I’ve heard something about that,” Emory said with a nod.

  “Anyway, McLaren was hidin’ behind some barrels in the cantina, and he got mad when he realized José was about to give him away. He jumped up and plugged José, then made a try for me. The Jensens stopped him without anybody else gettin’ hurt. That’s about the size of it.”

  Emory’s eyes widened a bit at the news of the shooting. “How bad is José hurt?”

  “He’ll live, more than likely. McLaren shot him through the shoulder. Doc Bellem’s with him now.”

  “But that means you’ll charge McLaren with . . .”

  “Attempted murder, yeah.”

  Before the conversation could continue, Miguel Soriano came back into the office from the cell block and said to Dixon, “McLaren really wants to talk to you, boss. Says he insists and that he’s got a right to.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I guess I’ll humor him.”

  Dixon went into the cell block, followed by Ace, Chance, Emory, and the night deputy. McLaren’s four friends were divided evenly between the two cells on the right, Dunn and Russell in the first one, Merritt and Severs in the second.

  Pete McLaren was by himself in the first cell on the left, standing at the door and gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles had turned white. “This is your last chance, Dixon. Open this door and let me outta here right now.”

  “Or else what?” Dixon said.

  “Or else you’ll be bringin’ down hell on this whole town, you old fool. My brother’s bound to hear about you lockin’ me up, and when he does, he’ll come back here and you’ll see the buzzards roostin’ again, just like the old days!”

  Dixon let out a humorless laugh. “That’s a pretty far-fetched notion, kid. Otis McLaren is long gone from these parts. Nobody around here has seen hide nor hair of him or heard anything about him for years. Hell, he’s probably been dead for a long time. That’s the way all no-good owlhoots wind up sooner or later.”

  “You’re wrong, Marshal,” McLaren said as his face twisted in a hate-filled grimace. “And you’re gonna be damned sorry.” He looked at the others in the aisle of the cell block. “All of you are! You’re all dead men. You just don’t know it yet!”

  “Shut up or I’ll see to it I forget to give you breakfast in the mornin’.” Dixon nodded toward the door. “Come on, gents. Let’s let this sorry bunch stew in their own juices.”

  As they all went out, Pete McLaren screamed obscene curses and threats after them. Miguel Soriano closed the cell block door with a solid thud. The thick wood muffled the vile words, but they could still hear McLaren ranting.

  “If he doesn’t get tired and shut up after a while, go in and throw a bucket of water on him,” Dixon instructed the night deputy.

  Emory said, “Those were pretty serious threats he was making, Marshal. Do you, uh, do you think we need to worry?”

  “About McLaren?” Dixon shook his head. “He can make all the threats he wants. He can’t back ’em up while he’s behind bars. And that’s where he’s gonna be for a long time if I have anything to say about it.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Leaving the jail, Ace and Chance headed for the Melodian again.

  “Think we’ll make it this time?” Chance asked dryly as they walked along the street toward the saloon.

  “Town seems quiet,” Ace said.

  “It seemed quiet before . . . right up until the time McLaren and his friends jumped us from that alley.” Chance shook his head. “It bothers me that they got close enough to do that without tipping us off what was about to happen.”

  “Me, too,” Ace admitted. “Our minds were on other things.”

  Chance grinned. “Yeah. I hope Miss Dupree
hasn’t already finished her performances for the night.”

  No one interfered with the brothers on their way to the saloon, although some of the townspeople they passed gave them long, interested looks. Their run-ins with McLaren’s bunch had given them some notoriety in Lone Pine, Ace thought.

  When they entered the Melodian, Fontana was standing at the end of the bar with Hank Muller. She caught their eyes and smiled.

  Chance took that as an invitation to go over and talk to her. He pinched the brim of his hat as he nodded politely. “Miss Dupree. It’s mighty nice to see you again.”

  “It appears you went through a lot to get here,” she said.

  Chance gestured toward his slightly rumpled outfit. “You mean this? I suppose I should have cleaned up—”

  “I was thinking more about that bruise on your jaw.”

  “There’s a bruise on my jaw?” Chance touched it gingerly with a couple fingertips and made a face. “Son of a gun. There sure is. It’s been such a busy evening, I hadn’t even noticed.”

  Muller said, “Any evening that winds up with McLaren and his friends behind bars is a good one, as far as I’m concerned.”

  One of the saloon girls was walking past him as he spoke. Ace saw the glance she gave him and recognized her as the blonde who’d been on McLaren’s lap when he and Chance had first come in the night before.

  Dolly, that was her name. She didn’t look particularly happy about what Muller had just said. Maybe she had a soft spot in her heart for McLaren, despite the way he treated her. Ace had seen such things happen before.

  “I sure hope you haven’t finished singing for the evening, Miss Dupree,” Chance went on to Fontana.

  “I can always manage another tune or two,” the brunette said. “Especially for you boys. After all, we’re sort of business partners now, aren’t we?”

  “Excuse me?” Ace said. “How do you figure that, Miss Dupree?”

  “Both of you can call me Fontana. And since I paid your fines and the damages, I figure that gives me, well, a stake in the two of you.”

  Muller frowned. “If I’d known you were the one who was gonna come up with that dinero, I never would have asked for damages.”

  “It’s all right, Hank,” she told him, then laughed. “Anyway, I’ll get it back from you in wages, won’t I?”

  “I reckon you could look at it that way,” Muller said with a shrug of his beefy shoulders.

  “Now, since Chance is interested in hearing a song . . . and I suppose you are, too, Ace, or you wouldn’t be here—”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ace said.

  “I’ll see what Orrie and I can come up with.” She walked off toward the piano while Chance eyed her gracefully swaying form with appreciation.

  Muller cleared his throat “You fellas want a drink? First one’s on the house, considering we’ve got you to thank for those hellions being locked up.”

  “Beer’s fine,” Ace said, thinking that considering the state of their finances, the first drink tonight might also have to be the last one.

  * * *

  Marshal Hoyt Dixon knocked on the door of the brothers’ hotel room early the next morning. Ace, being more of an early riser than Chance, was already up shaving. With lather still on his face, he set the razor aside and picked up the six-gun sitting next to the basin.

  “Morning, Marshal,” he said with a friendly nod when he opened the door and saw who was standing in the hallway.

  Dixon looked at the gun and asked, “You always answer the door with a hogleg in your hand?”

  “It’s sort of a habit, especially when Chance and I aren’t expecting visitors.” Ace tucked the revolver into his waistband. “What can I do for you?”

  “You should’ve been expectin’ me. You got to go to court this mornin’.”

  Ace’s eyes widened slightly. “We’re not in trouble again for something, are we?”

  “No, but you got to testify at the hearin’, kid. McLaren and those other varmints will be appearin’ before Judge Ordway in about an hour.”

  “Oh,” Ace said as understanding dawned on him. “Well, that’ll give us some time to get breakfast.”

  “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Keeping an eye on us, Marshal?”

  “Witnesses have been known to change their minds at the last minute about testifyin’ against Pete McLaren.”

  “That’s not going to happen with me and Chance. You can bet your hat on it.”

  “I ain’t a gamblin’ man,” Dixon said. “That’s why I’m havin’ breakfast with you two hombres.”

  Ace nodded and went to the bed. He gave Chance’s shoulder a shake. “Rise and shine. Justice is calling.”

  Shaggy from sleep, Chance raised his head and gave it a groggy shake. “Huh?”

  “We’ve got to go to court in a little while.”

  “Plead innocent,” Chance said as he buried his face in the pillow again.

  Ace grinned. “I’m not sure anybody would believe that, but we’re not the ones the hearing is for. We have to testify against McLaren and his friends.”

  “Well, why the hell didn’t you say so?” Chance groused as he started untangling himself from the sheets.

  * * *

  The three men sat down to breakfast a short time later at the Lone Pine Café. They swallowed strong black coffee and dug into their food.

  Ace asked, “Quiet night at the jail, Marshal?”

  “Yeah, once McLaren got too tired to keep cussin’ and ravin’. Miguel said there was no other trouble. My other deputy, Norm Sutherland, has relieved him and is holdin’ down the fort now.” Dixon took another sip of coffee. “I might as well tell you now. I talked to the prosecutor, Tim Buchanan, and he says McLaren’s friends aren’t guilty of anything except disturbin’ the peace.”

  “What?” Chance said. “They jumped us and figured on beating us within an inch of our lives. That’s got to be attempted murder, or at least assault.”

  “Yeah, you’d think so, but the way it turned out, you boys gave even more than you got. They could turn around and claim that you assaulted them.”

  “So we’re penalized for defending ourselves,” Ace said with a note of disbelief in his voice.

  “The judge will levy the heaviest fines he can, I expect,” Dixon said, “but don’t count on those boys goin’ back to jail once the hearin’ is over. Don’t worry. They’re a sorry lot, but they don’t amount to much without McLaren around. Perry Severs is probably the smartest one in the bunch, and he’s dumb as a box of rocks. McLaren’s the only one who really counts, and he’s gonna be standing trial for shootin’ José.”

  “You sure about that?” Chance asked.

  “His lawyer, Sol Horton, is about as slick as a snake oil salesman, but he can’t change the facts of the case. All three of us saw McLaren plug the Mex. He’s goin’ to prison, all right.”

  Ace hoped the lawman’s confidence wasn’t misplaced. They finished up their breakfasts and headed for the town hall.

  The chairs for spectators were full already, and people thronged on the boardwalk outside so they could watch through the windows and listen through the open doors.

  The five prisoners, all in irons, were clustered behind one of the tables at the front of the room. A man with a black mustache and shaggy black brows sat with them. That would be the lawyer Marshal Dixon had mentioned, Ace thought.

  At the other table sat a frock-coated man in his thirties who had a high forehead and wavy brown hair. Ace supposed that was Prosecutor Buchanan.

  As he looked around the room, Ace saw that Hank Muller and Fontana Dupree were present, as was José. The cantina owner, with his wounded shoulder swaddled in bandages, sat among the spectators just behind the prosecution table.

  “You fellas stand over there by the wall,” Dixon told Ace and Chance. As they took their places, the marshal went to the front of the room and waited. He called, “All rise!” when Judge Ordway came in.

  When t
he formalities were over and Ordway had gaveled the proceedings underway so everybody could sit down, the prosecutor stood up again and announced, “Timothy Buchanan for the county, Your Honor.”

  “And Solomon Horton representing the defendants, Your Honor,” the mustachioed lawyer said as he got to his feet.

  “We’ll dispense with opening statements,” Judge Ordway said. “Marshal, what are the charges against these men?”

  Ace figured the judge knew what the charges were just like everybody else did, but things had to be done a certain way.

  Dixon read off the charges from a document he picked up from the prosecution table.

  Ordway looked to the prosecutor. “Call your first witness, Mr. Buchanan.”

  The prosecutor turned to look at Ace. “I call Mr. William Jensen.”

  It wasn’t the first time Ace had testified in court, but he didn’t like it and never had. The worry that he was going to say or do something wrong always lurked in the back of his mind, even though he responded with complete honesty to all of Buchanan’s questions. It took only a few minutes to cover the events of the past two nights.

  Then Sol Horton got to his feet. “Mister . . . Jensen, is it?”

  “That’s right,” Ace said.

  “Mr. Jensen, I believe you and your brother were locked up for disturbing the peace night before last, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “And the two of you were found guilty and fined in this very courtroom some twenty-four hours ago.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why should we not believe you and your brother were equally to blame for the altercation last night? Isn’t it perfectly reasonable to believe that the two of you started the fight . . . not my clients?”

  “With odds of five against two?” Ace shook his head. “I don’t reckon I’d call that idea perfectly reasonable, Mr. Horton.”

  That answer brought laughter from many of the spectators, a reaction that spread out onto the boardwalk.

  Horton flushed with anger. “But it is conceivable events could have transpired that way?”