Cold-Blooded, page 14
“Since the case was dismissed, why was Joselita followed?” Jess said.
“I don’t know,” Koenig said.
“Where is Joselita?”
“She’s upstairs in her room and there’s a guard at the door,” Destiny said. “She’ll be down shortly.”
“Is that wise?” Jess said.
“Sheriff, the girl is not a prisoner,” Destiny said. “We’ll keep an eye on her, and she’s very wary around men.”
Koenig grinned. “Except for Red Stark.”
“Who’s he?” Jess said. Suddenly he felt protective.
“He’s a young puncher, rides for the Lazy-T,” Destiny said. “He comes in every Friday night and makes moon eyes at her.”
“And what about Joselita?” Jess said.
“She makes moon eyes back at him,” Koenig said. He nodded to the gun in Jess’s waistband. “You planning to shoot me with that there hogleg?”
“No,” Jess said. “It’s not loaded.” He passed it to Koenig. “Don’t drop it,” he said.
“What am I looking for?” Koenig said.
“Have you ever seen that Colt before?” Jess said.
“I’ve seen a hundred just like it,” Koenig said.
“Look closely at the engraving and the fit of the ivory handles,” Jess said. “That revolver is a work of art.”
Koenig nodded. “The work has been well done,” Koenig said. “And its balance is near perfect. Now, let me guess. You took this off a feller earlier tonight and you think it’s one of the guns stolen from Bruno Cavanni’s workshop.”
“How did you know about Silas Topper?” Jess said.
“Is that his name? The word I heard is that he’s a draw fighter but you put the crawl on him with a scattergun and then coldcocked him with the butt as a way of saying howdy.”
“Why didn’t you come talk to me?” Jess said.
“Jess, you’re a big boy now,” Koenig said. “You’re the man who killed a legend and a man who kills a legend becomes a legend himself. You don’t need my help to enforce the law in the Acre any longer. Now folks are scared of you. You catching my drift?”
“Hell, I don’t want folks to be afraid of me,” Jess said. “I need them to stand behind me.”
“Kurt meant bad folks, Custer,” Destiny said. “All them mean Injuns out there on the street who dearly want to take your scalp.”
“Destiny, don’t tease Jess,” Koenig said. “When he isn’t shooting folks or bashing them over the head with clubs he’s a sensitive soul.” He passed Jess the Colt. “There’s a man named Pleasant Woodis, lives just outside of town with a Lipan woman. Don’t let his name fool you, he hates everybody but he often spent time with Bruno Cavanni.”
“Then this could be his gun?” Jess said.
“Maybe, but it’s a long shot. I know he has an interest in English hunting rifles.” Koenig pushed away a drunk who’d bumped into his chair, then said, “There’s only one problem: Pleasant has a tendency to shoot trespassers on sight.”
“How do I get to his place?” Jess said.
“Easy. Take 12th Street and head west. After a couple of miles you’ll come across a cabin and a warning sign. After that, proceed at your own risk.”
“I’ll go talk to him tomorrow,” Jess said.
“Your funeral, Jess,” Koenig said. “If I was you . . . Good Lord, what have we here? The belle of the ball has arrived.”
Jess turned and did a double take. A few startled moments passed before he recognized a transformed Joselita Juarez. She wore a dress of pink organdy and her hair was brushed back and secured with ornate silver combs. Destiny or one of the other girls had obviously made up her face, transforming what had been an abused, homely fourteen-year-old into a lovely young woman.
As she’d been taught, Joselita said, “It’s nice to see you again, Sheriff Casey.” She offered her hand and Jess took it in his own, bowed and kissed it and would forever wonder why he’d done such a foolish thing.
“You’re becoming quite the galant gentleman, Sheriff,” Destiny said. Then, her eyebrow lifting, “Did you read an instruction book?”
Joselita sat beside Destiny and soon their heads were together, whispering. Koenig was in deep conversation with a bartender and Jess shuffled to his feet and said, “Well, I guess I should be going.”
But nobody paid him the slightest mind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It felt good to be riding again across rough, sun-scorched country as empty and lonely as a crater on the moon. Jess Casey smelled air made sweet by pine and wildflowers and allowed the vast silence to settle on him, so different from the constant racket and ever-present odors of horse dung, crowded bodies and cattle pens of the city.
Jess, for the present in a lighthearted frame of mind, was about to launch into song, a thing that would have pleased him and irritated his horse, when he noticed a recent grave near a stand of mixed pine and hardwoods.
He drew rein and studied the tree line. Nothing moved but the wind.
After a few moments Jess rode closer then swung out of the saddle. The grave showed signs that the occupant had been buried in a hurry and Jess counted three sets of footprints.
“A friend of your’n?”
The voice came from behind him and Jess turned slowly, then his line of vision dropped to the tiny man who now faced him, the double-barreled rifle in his hands pointed right at Jess’s belly. Staring into the black eyes of a Holland & Holland 4-bore aimed at your guts is a conversation stopper and it took Jess quite a while before he found his tongue.
Finally he said, “No, he wasn’t a friend of mine.”
“Don’t matter now who he was,” the man said. “Friend or foe, he’s dead.”
The little man wore pants, miner’s boots and an elaborately beaded buckskin shirt that must have taken an Indian woman a long time to make. His thin gray hair was long and he had blue eyes that were faded almost to gray, as though he’d seen too much in his life and worn them out. He looked Jess up and down then said, “Got a star on your shirt. You must be some kind of a lawman.”
“Name’s Jess Casey and I’m the sheriff of”—Jess decided to exaggerate—“Fort Worth.”
“And you boast of it?” Jess made no answer to that and the little man said, “Name’s Pleasant Woodis. I live hereabouts.”
Jess grinned. “The very man I want to see. I’m here—”
The huge gun came up quick and Woodis’s eyes were suspicious. “For why are you here?” he said.
To his considerable discomfort Jess saw that both hammers of the elephant gun were cocked. His words tumbled out in a hurry. “I thought you might be able to identify a Colt revolver.”
“If it says Colt on it, then it’s a Colt revolver,” Woodis said.
“I think the one in my saddlebag may have belonged to you,” Jess said.
“Who told you that?”
“Man named Kurt Koenig.”
“Damned scoundrel. He hasn’t been hung yet?”
“Not yet, but he’s working on it,” Jess said.
Woodis nodded, then said, “Come with me. My cabin isn’t far.”
“We can do it right here,” Jess said. “As I said, I brought the revolver with me.”
“Mister, I ain’t inclined to be friendly, so do as I say,” Woodis said.
“Sure,” Jess said. “Your cabin will be just fine.”
“It better be,” Woodis said. “Catch up your horse and come.”
* * *
The Woodis cabin was well built and set close to a running stream. The interior was comfortable, furnished in wood, leather and soft rugs. It smelled of Woodis’s pipe, gun oil and baking bread. One wall was hung with rifles of all kinds, fine weapons that must have come with hefty price tags. Woodis unloaded the Holland & Holland, extracting cartridges that looked as big as howitzer shells, and hung the rifle back on the wall.
“Coffee,” he said to his woman.
Tall, stately and silent, the Lipan woman nodded and stepped into a small kitchen. She wore a severe black dress with white collar and cuffs and her glossy black hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Jess thought she was a fine-looking woman but there seemed to be no joy in her.
As the woman poured coffee, Pleasant Woodis identified the Colt almost immediately. “It started as a plain, twelve-dollar Colt and then I had it engraved by Bruno Cavanni. You can see for yourself that he did an excellent job. I took the Colt back to be fitted with ivory. Then I heard that he’d been murdered and his store robbed. I figured this was among the stolen guns. I never thought I’d see it again.”
“I took that from a man I now have in custody, Mr. Woodis,” Jess said. “Are you prepared to stand up in court and state that the revolver is yours?”
“If I will put a noose around the neck of a man who murdered my friend, then, yes, I will,” Woodis said.
“I will have to take the Colt back though,” Jess said. “It has to be entered into evidence.”
“It’s a fine weapon, a revolver a man can be proud of,” Woodis said. “But you can take it back. Once the murderer is hanged, I’ll reclaim it.” Woodis took time to light his pipe, then said, “Kurt Koenig tell you that I shoot trespassers?”
Jess said, “He did, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Is that so,” Woodis said. “Well, it’s just as well because it ain’t true. I’ve been here nigh on twenty year and in all that time only shot but two.” He pointed with his pipe. “Know why I didn’t shoot you?”
“No, but I’m glad you didn’t. That cannon you carried could put a big hole in a man.”
As though he hadn’t heard, Woodis said, “I didn’t shoot you because you reminded me of a friend of mine, General George Armstrong Custer. You ever hear of him?”
“Of course,” Jess said. “Everybody’s heard of Custer and his gallant last stand.”
“I was supposed to be with him as a scout, but a week before the 7th rode out of Fort Lincoln I came down with the rheumatisms. I missed the whole shebang,” Woodis said.
“Well, you saved your scalp,” Jess said.
“That’s one way of looking at it, I guess. But I would rather have died with Custer, standing under the flag in one moment of hell-firing glory than grow old and rot away like I’m doing now.”
Woodis buried his face in his hands.
The Lipan woman spoke for the first time. “You’ve upset him. He won’t speak again. Go away now.”
Jess got to his feet, shoved the fancy Colt into his waistband and said, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Woodis.”
The little man didn’t answer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sam Waters hung by his feet from a ceiling beam, a wooden bucket filled with water under his head. As a refinement in torture, the only way he could prevent himself from drowning was to hold up his head and place an intolerable strain on his neck and back muscles.
Jess Casey opened his Barlow, cut the rope as he walked past and stepped quickly to the cells. As he’d expected, the cell door hung open and Silas Topper was gone.
A thud of a falling body, the clang of the bucket and Sam’s curses reassured him that the old man was unhurt, and indeed that was the case.
“Only my pride is hurt, Sheriff,” he said, drying his hair with a towel. “They jumped me and I didn’t have a chance.”
“How many?” Jess said.
“Five. All of them big fellers.”
“How many?” Jess said.
“Two. But they were big, all right, and strong.”
“Recognize either of them?”
“Sure. I was in Huntsville with them, wasn’t I? One was Loco Looper. He’s a crazy man and it was his idea to put the water bucket under my head. The other was Dark Alley Jim Turner. Mean as a teased rattler that one.”
“When did it happen?” Jess said.
“Right after you rode out of town. You talk with that crazy Woodis feller?”
“Yeah. He says it’s his Colt and he’s willing to testify that in court if it can put a noose around Silas Topper’s neck.”
Sam looked uncomfortable, as though he held something back, then he said, “Sheriff, ol’ Silas told me a message to give to you.”
“Yeah, I know. He says the next time he sees me he’ll kill me.”
Sam looked surprised. “You spoke to him?”
“No, but what else kind of message should I expect from a lowlife like Topper?”
“He’s quick on the draw an’ shoot, Jess.”
“I know, but he doesn’t like shotguns, none of his breed do.”
“Ain’t much fun carrying around a Greener scattergun everywhere you go,” Sam said.
“I know. Seems like I’ll have to put my trust in Sam Colt, huh?” Jess said.
“If you need me, I’ll be at your side, Sheriff.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Jess said. Then, because the old man was hurting, blaming himself for Topper’s escape, “I can’t think of a man I’d rather have at my side when the chips are down.”
Pleased, Sam Waters grinned and said, “Damn right.”
* * *
“Topper, you stay away from the sheriff, you hear?” Jasper Dunn said. “You’ll have time enough to kill him later.”
“He cut me down to size in front of the whole damn town,” Topper said. “I can’t let that go.”
“Nor will you,” Dunn said. “But you must bide your time.”
A man named Ed Lacey, who seemed to have been born with a permanent sneer, had been hovering near Dunn’s desk. Now he smirked and said, “You ain’t the first man that turned yeller at the sight of a shotgun.” Then he made a mistake. He took a step closer to Topper.
In one fluid motion, the little gunman rose from his chair, swept a whiskey bottle from the desk and swung it fast and hard against the side of Lacey’s head. The glass shattered and the man went down, landing solidly on his butt.
“You want in?” Topper said. “Go for the iron and we’ll see who’s yeller.”
Dunn jumped to his feet. “That’s enough, Topper!” he yelled. “I don’t want us fighting among ourselves.”
Topper listened, but Ed Lacey didn’t.
A man of reputation who’d killed more than his share, he had never, even in Huntsville, had anyone put hands on him. To be struck by a bottle was an insult he could neither abide nor forgive.
His face livid, eyes devilish, Lacey grabbed for his gun.
He didn’t even come close. Topper put two bullets into Lacey’s chest before he cleared leather, then, an aimed shot, a third between his eyes. It later became a matter of discussion in Hell’s Half Acre if that last shot was necessary. The consensus of the graybeards huddled around their winter stoves, was that it was not needed but a grandstand play on Topper’s part.
Either way, it didn’t matter a damn to Ed Lacey. He kicked his legs a time or two then sprawled on the floor, dead as a bearskin rug.
His smoking gun in his hand, Topper glared around the room. “Anybody else want to say I’m yellow and make their play?” He got no takers, but his gaze spiked at Ford Talon with all the warmth of an ice pick. “Maybe you, soldier boy?”
Talon shrugged and looked at the dead man. “Doesn’t seem to be much future in it, Silas.”
Jasper Dunn said, “Mr. Topper, come and have a drink. Let’s have no more unpleasantness. You, too, Mr. Talon.”
Dunn smiled but secretly he was worried. His dependence on violent cons, a few like Topper treading the ragged edge of insanity, was a double-edged sword. They might kill off one another before he could take over the town. Ford Talon was a cool customer, but Dunn couldn’t bring himself to trust him. There was something about the man that didn’t ring right, a crack in the bell. He’d bear watching.
The bottom line was that Jasper Dunn realized he had to make his move against Luke Short sooner than he’d planned . . . like tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It was Luke Short’s habit of a late evening to step outside the White Elephant and take a stroll to get the saloon smoke out of his lungs and the smell of booze from his nose. Not that Luke minded those things, but in strict moderation fresh air was good for a man.
His usual route was to walk south into the Acre, stopping every now and then to ease his swollen feet that a doctor had told him were caused by dropsy.
A dandy by inclination, the night that Dunn decided to make his move, Luke was dressed to the nines in a pearl gray frock coat and top hat of the same shade and he sported spats and a silver-headed cane. A short-barreled Colt resided in the leather-lined back pocket of his pants. He was well known to the ladies of the evening who called out to him as he passed on his promenade and inquired if he desired a little female companionship. It was a familiar ritual and Luke’s reply never varied: “Not tonight, ladies, but perhaps tomorrow.”
But that night he exchanged words with an Irish whore named Mary Kelly, who two years year later on her return to London would become Jack the Ripper’s fifth victim. Mary tucked a large-denomination note into her décolletage and Luke continued on his way, handing out silver dollars to the poor and destitute, kissing the odd baby now and then.
Thus, as he entered the Acre, people who met him on the boardwalks considered Luke Short a likable-enough gentleman, generous and good-natured. . . all but two, that is: Len Crawford and Kirk Graham considered him a target.
Crawford and Graham figured they had the perfect location for an ambush and assassination. Acting on instructions from Jasper Dunn, they positioned themselves in an alley named Tam’s Wynd. Even in daytime the towering tenements on each side made the narrow passageway as black as mortal sin. Directly across Main Street, its two front windows aglow with bright gaslight, stood Lottie Lambert’s Corset, Collar & Cuff Shoppe. Anyone passing the alley would be silhouetted against the light for several seconds, an easy target for a couple of shotgun blasts. And Luke Short’s stovepipe hat, a rarity in the Acre, was the mark of Cain that would identify him.
Kirk Graham, a murderous brute who’d killed his grandparents with a mattock for the seventeen dollars in savings they kept in a tin box, fingered his Greener and whispered, “Len, I’ll let him have both barrels in the head and then you cut loose as he falls.”
