The Stranglers, page 8
part #4 of Page Murdock Series
"I hate all of you," she said. "That way I don't have to waste time sorting you out."
I let her world turn her way and went into the back. Cocker Flynn was lying under a thick quilt and alcohol fumes heavy enough to cut a slice out of, with his hair plastered to his forehead and his eyes closed. At first I thought he was asleep, but when I was standing over him they opened.
"What you looking like that for?" he demanded in a voice I could barely hear. 'Tm the one got shot."
"Who shot you?"
"It was dark as hell. I didn't see them."
"How many were there?"
"Well, if it was too dark to see who it was, don't you think it was too dark to count them?"
"Calm down and tell me about it."
It took a while. I had to hunker down and place my ear almost to his lips to make out most of it, even then I lost some of the details when his voice receded entirely before swelling back up, like an argument in a house across the street. The way I pieced it together, Flynn and the Swede and the two deputies from Great Falls were setting up camp in the Smith River country just past dark their first night out when a large band of mounted men came up on three sides of them with rifles glimmering in the starlight and told them to throw down their weapons. Someone—Flynn thought it was one of the men from Great Falls—made a move and the mounted men opened fire. Flynn hooked out his Colt and rattled off three shots at high shadows, but by then bullets were singing all around him and he dived under the pack mule, nearly getting stamped to death when lead struck one of the packs and the animal brayed and started bucking. It wasn't until he was on the ground and feeling for more ammunition on his belt that he felt the wetness on the side of his shirt and realized he'd been shot clean through. He was sorry he'd found out because right after that he started to hurt and get weak.
The shooting was still going on. It seemed like a long time, but when he thought back on it afterward and counted the seconds, the total kept coming up less than a minute. Someone flopped down at full length right in front of him with a grunt. He thought it was the Swede. The gunfire stopped then, and the next few moments were filled with boots crunching on the frosted grass and indecipherable mutterings. By this time Flynn was floating on the edge of unconsciousness, so he couldn't be sure if he heard what he thought he heard next or dreamed it, but someone—it sounded like the younger man from Great Falls—called someone else a son of a bitch, and right after that there was a loud crack as of an open hand slapping someone's face hard. He didn't hear the voice again.
A male voice he didn't recognize called for a light. A horse whickered and leather squeaked and metal rattled, followed by a creak as of a lantern glass lifting, and then a match popped and flared and greasy light slid across the ground in front of Flynn. A pair of boots wearing cruel Mexican spurs jingled forward and stopped next to the fallen Swede. Just then the Swede's gun came up, but one of the boots kicked it flying and the broad muzzle of a rifle struck bone with a thump. The Swede grunted and lay still.
"This one's breathing," the man with the spurs announced. "Think I busted his skull, though."
"What about the other?" asked the man who had ordered the light.
The spurs came Flynn's way. He shut his eyes and held his breath. Clothing rustled and something touched earth close by and he felt the heat of the lantern on his face. He was lying with his head turned sideways. A hand smelling of tobacco and spent powder touched his face and he rolled his eyes as far back as they would go just before a thumb pried open his right eyelid.
"This one's dead." Spurs let the lid drop.
"One less rope, then," said the first man.
"Bury him?" This was a new voice.
"We bury any of the others?"
There was no reply. The first man said, "Get his gun and let's go."
Flynn's Colt was slid from under his hand. Surrounded by men with guns, he made no attempt to hold on to it. Spurs rose. The lantern went up with him and the deputy started breathing again, trying not to gasp.
"What about the one with the busted head?" Spurs wanted to know. "He's got a bullet in him too."
"That don't mean he won't swing just as good," said the first man.
Two of them bent to drag the unconscious Swede to his feet. Flynn blacked out then. When he came to, the sky was going pale and something cold and moist was rubbing the back of his neck. After a moment he realized it was his horse. It must have run off during the shooting and wandered back after the others had gone. His memory wasn't reliable on the rest of it, but somehow he had managed to pull himself into the saddle and make his way back to Helena and help, depending as much on the horse's homing instinct as on his own eroded abilities through that day and most of the next night, until weakness and gravity got the better of him and he tumbled out of the saddle and hadn't the strength to climb back up. The horse had waited around for a while, trying to rouse him by rooting its muzzle under his arm, then had given up and trotted riderless the rest of the way home.
I was trying to get some more details about Flynn's attackers out of him when the doctor came in. "That's enough," he snapped. "If it's killing him you want, you'll not do it here."
I told Flynn I'd be back to visit him and went out. The Negro was reading about Attila in the parlor. He closed the book and stood.
"The bastard was born to die of old age," I told him. He flashed his gap-toothed grin.
I had twenty dollars in paper money in my poke. I held it out to him. "It's not near enough," I said. "You bought him a lot of years today."
"It's too much, Mr. Murdock. You better keep it."
"I'm not trying to buy you."
"I know. I pull out paper like that anywhere in town, folks just figure I stole it."
I hadn't thought of that. I put the money away, then thought of something and fingered the dented star out of my shirt pocket and held that out.
He grinned again. "A black marshal?"
"If you ever need me and can't get to me, send that. I'll come as far as I have to."
Still he hesitated. "Don't you need it?"
"I haven't so far."
He accepted it then, polishing it on his sleeve before buttoning it away in one of the flap pockets on his breast. On our way out of the house I asked him his name.
"Duncan," he said.
"First or last?"
"Both. First man that owned me gave me his last name as a kindness, but I never taken to it."
He held the door for me and we stepped out into the sunshine. "How'd Attila come out, by the way?"
"He done lost." He shrugged a corded shoulder. "They always do."
"Only in books," I said. We parted.
ELEVEN
It was warm in the courthouse. The side door leading into court was propped open to create a cross draft through the main entrance, with the Judge's bailiff, a tight old former deputy with a horseshoe of white hair around his naked scalp and a forked beard, sweating in the slow current of air from the hall. Behind him a clerkly man in a black suit sat in the witness chair explaining to the jury in conversational tones how he had come to split open his wife's face with a horse collar.
"Judge can't be disturbed while court's in session," the bailiff told me. The plain butt of a .36 Navy Colt carved a lazy C between his vest and the front of his trousers.
"This is important." I got out the pencil stub I carried to keep track of expenses, scribbled on the back of an old hotel receipt, and handed the note of the bailiff. 'Take this to him."
Reluctantly he turned and walked to the high bench and handed the fold of paper up to Blackthorne, who read it at arm's length—he apparently refused to wear his spectacles in public—and called a ten-minute recess, rapping the block with the butt of his Remington in place of a gavel. Since the day a defendant had almost gotten hold of the bailiff's Colt the Judge liked to keep the pocket gun in plain sight on the bench. While the court was still rising he strode out the side door and drew it shut behind him.
"How's Flynn?" he demanded.
I said, "He's a better man with a hole in him than a lot I could mention without. He'll likely live." I sketched out briefly the story Flynn had told me.
The Judge's brow grew as dark as his robes. "I'll not have this. Find the Mercys and tell them."
"This has to do with the Indian," I said. "Whether these are our stranglers or not, it's no coincidence they knew that was a party of lawmen. A lot of the ranchers and homesteaders in that country helped hide out Sugar Jim and his partners because they've no use for the law. Now they're helping the Indian. I want this one."
"No. You're testifying Wednesday."
"I'll head out straight from the witness chair. Another day won't make that much difference on the start the Indian has now."
"It's just your theory that he's connected with this gang. It's as full of holes as one of Colonel Hookstratton's peach tins. And your testimony may take more than one day."
"Not if I'm the first witness."
"That's up to Springer. He may have his case constructed along entirely different lines."
"You can tell him to find new ones. I'm pulling out, with or without your leave. If without, I pull out today."
"I'll jail you for contempt of court."
"You'll have to find me first."
He said a number of things you don't often hear jurists say, unless you knew this jurist. "All right, damn you. I can't spare you and the Mercys too. Tell them they're staying in Helena."
"They'll be crushed."
The Judge ignored that. "Who are you taking along?"
"The kid from Painted Rock, if he's willing. He looked pretty good standing over Sugar Jim."
"He's on his way here to testify too. But with your evidence on the stand I suppose we can make do with a signed affidavit. Springer won't like it."
"When he sees me with my suit brushed and pomade on my hair he'll be so happy it won't matter."
"Two men against an unspecified number of faceless killers isn't a hand I would bet on," he said.
"Four didn't do any too well. But you can build a fair bluff on a pair."
He ground his store-bought teeth. They sounded like china plates scraping together. "It's the Indian you want, remember. Don't go Hickoking into something that's too big for you just because Cocker Flynn's your friend."
"He's not my friend, exactly."
"Ha." He placed his hand on the doorknob. "One thing. If Jim Creel goes free because the government failed to present a strong case, you'd be wise to mail me your star."
He returned to court. I didn't tell him there was someone who could turn my star in for me.
I found Jordan Mercy holding court in the Belmont at the table where we'd had lunch, smoking what looked like another of Judge Blackthorne's long cigars and peeling out stud to his brother Joshua and Colonel Hookstratton in his tailcoat and a young miner who looked flattered to be sitting at the same table with the Mankiller of Topeka. Jordan said Jericho was occupied at Chicago Joe's. There was nothing in his manner to suggest our earlier confrontation. Nor did he display any emotion when I told him about Flynn and that his orders to leave on manhunt had been canceled. He merely nodded and flipped twenty dollars in checks off his stack into the center of the table to open. The young miner blanched at the amount. I left them.
I went back to my collar box of a room over the harness shop and invested some time fully clothed on my back on the bed, studying the water stains on the ceiling. When I got tired of that I got up and unpegged my hat and went down to Chicago Joe's. Jericho Mercy was coming out as I was going in. The color on his cheeks was high.
"How was it?" I asked.
He hesitated. "The m-m-music was g-good." He kept walking.
The place was lively. All the tables were taken and miners in overalls were lined up six deep at the bar. The dance floor was crowded with couples shuffling their feet to the noise from the bandstand. Jackie was there, in the arms of a slow-faced redhead half a head taller than I. I went up and tapped him on the shoulder. "My shift."
He was several seconds absorbing that. "Get your own. I seen this one first."
I took out the paper twenty I had offered Duncan and funneled it around my thumb and poked the edge against his large nose. His eyes rolled toward the center and then a big calloused hand came up and closed on the bill. He peered at it closely.
"It ain't right," he said after a moment. But he let go of Jackie and moved off. I stepped in and took his place. Her back was stiff against my left forearm.
"That didn't look good." Her eyes, a few inches from mine, were hard. "It looks like I'm not worth twenty dollars."
"Talk to Joe. She's the one who fixes the price. Let's talk."
"Talking time costs the same as the other."
"That's fair." I danced her around a little. There wasn't room to do much more than slide our feet. "Sugar Jim." I said.
She stiffened some more. "What about him?"
"You're his favorite."
"Where'd you hear it?"
"From him."
An army of conflicting emotions marched across her face under the heavy makeup. "He said that?" Her tone was softer.
"Uh-huh. Men tell things to women they'd never tell other men. Especially at certain times."
"Not to me. Not to Sugar Jim."
"He's smart. But he's still eighteen. When I was eighteen I talked about a lot of things I wouldn't talk about now."
"What if he did? What good's it to you? He's in jail."
"His friends aren't. Harvey Byrd and the Indian."
"I don't know them," she said.
"Maybe he said some things about the places he went to when things heated up everywhere else. Maybe the others know about those places."
The music stopped. Applause crackled. We broke apart. Jackie's high yellow pompadour came over the brim of my hat, but her eyes were on a level several inches below mine and she had to look up to meet my gaze. She said, "I'm like a doctor or a lawyer. There's things I don't tell even if I know them. Which I'm not saying I do."
Her voice went down on the last part. We were starting to attract attention. I lowered mine.
"You can't hurt Sugar Jim. Like you said, he's in jail."
She shook her head. "It still sounds wrong. I'll go upstairs with you if you pay, but I won't promise you anything but the usual."
"What the hell," I said, as the band started up again. I took her hand. "What the hell."
Flynn's color was better when I visited him next morning. His dark hair and moustache didn't stand out so much and someone, probably Mrs. Chrichton, had shaved off his chin stubble. He lay with those slender white hands that looked as if they belonged to someone else curled on top of the quilt and his pillow bunched behind his head. More details of that first night had come back to him. He thought that the rifle barrel that had been used to quiet the Swede belonged to a Henry, and during the exchange of gunfire he was sure he'd heard the deep hoarse roar of a Springfield. He had fought with Custer at the Washita and it was the kind of sound that stayed with you. Also the man who had given all the orders had seemed to have an accent of some kind. German, Flynn thought, but he couldn't be sure.
"A Henry, a Springfield, and a German accent," I said dryly. "How many of those can there be in Montana?"
"I'm just telling what I saw and heard." He closed his eyes. He was breathing hard from the effort of speaking. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the foot of the cot. "When you going out after the Indian?"
"Who said I was?"
He looked at me.
"Day after tomorrow, first light," I said. "I'm in court tomorrow and I'll want a fresh start." I told him about the kid from Painted Rock.
He said, "You'll need a tracker. You can't read sign for shit."
"I get by. Anyway, I talked to a friend of Sugar Jim's yesterday. There's a mining town called Teamstrike up in the Highwoods. The vein ran out and the stage stopped going there a year ago, but some die-hard prospectors are still up there cracking rock. Creel used to go there when he got unpopular other places. I'm thinking that's where we'll find Byrd and the Indian."
"I'm thinking that's where you'll find the stranglers too."
"It would save us some time if we did."
"It could save you the rest of your threescore and ten." He shifted positions on the cot, wincing a little. "Take me along when you go."
"You're smarter than that, Flynn. You won't even be sitting up by then."
"I'll be standing tomorrow."
"Over the chamber pot."
"Go Friday. I'll be able to ride by then. Another day won't cost you if you're right about Teamstrike."
I leaned forward in the wobbly chair I had under me. ' 'I guess it looks like I don't have rules but I do. One of them says never ride with a man who has more than one hole in him."
"I'm a better tracker than you."
"Helena's full of better trackers than me. The kid knows that country. I'll go with that."
"You'll hang with that!" He'd started to sit up. He clamped a hand to his side and settled back, cursing breathlessly. I got up and went to the door and called for the doctor.
Chrichton came in and paused and peeled down the quilt and said,. "You've opened your dressing."
"I noticed." Flynn's tone was a whisper.
"Go," the doctor told me. "You're as dangerous to him as that bullet."
"I'll cut you down, Murdock, before the magpies get to you," said Flynn to my back. I closed the door on the rest of it.
Mrs. Chrichton was standing at the open top drawer of the big oaken file cabinet in the office. When I came in she looked up and said, "Your friend will be all right."
"Thanks," I said, fingering my hat. "I had a hunch."
Her eyelids flickered. There were cracks at the corners of her eyes, but her face didn't look as hard today. "I'm sorry for what I said yesterday. It's just that gunshot wounds make me so angry."
"Me too."
"If you men stopped wearing guns, my husband would have a lot more time to cure people who are really sick."
