Cold-Blooded, page 5
Judging by the size of the stack of rags at least a score of men had been involved in the robbery. They’d changed right there in the store and that meant they weren’t afraid of much.
The cons Waters had told him about had made their move and Jess had a feeling that worse, much worse, was to come.
“I’ve a good idea who did this, Mr. Harker,” Jess said. “I’ll track them down.”
“When, track them down?” Harker said.
“It will take time,” Jess said. “Can you describe any of the missing clothing?”
“Damn it, Sheriff, I sell rags to people who want better rags than the ones they’re wearing. I can’t remember . . . wait . . . yeah, I can describe a vest that’s missing. A cowboy sold it to me, a black-and-white cowhide vest with fancy horn buttons. It’s got a label on the inside that says it was made in El Paso. That’s all I can remember.”
“It’s a good start,” Jess said. “A vest like that is hard to miss.” Then, an apologetic look on his face, Jess said, “I have to buy some duds for a prisoner, a little feller.”
Harker shrugged. “Take what you want, Sheriff, free of charge. I’m out of business. Hell, that little Jewish feller, what’s his name?”
“Nate Levy.”
“Yeah, him. He’s been undercutting me anyway.”
“Mr. Harker, Nate’s store was robbed just like yours, only he was to home when the thieves arrived and he got badly beaten.”
Harker was stunned. “My God, Sheriff, what’s happening in this town?”
“Nothing good, Mr. Harker, nothing good.”
“Where is Nate?” Harker said. “I’ll go visit him and take him grapes. That’s what professional courtesy is all about, ain’t it? Taking a sick man grapes?”
* * *
Jess Casey left the store with an armful of used clothing that was a sight better than the rags Sam Waters had been wearing. He stopped off at the Ma’s Kitchen restaurant and got a plate of bacon and beans and a chunk of bread. That too was a sight better than what the old man had been eating.
* * *
While Sam Waters, dressed in his new duds, sat in Jess Casey’s chair and wolfed down bacon and beans, across town Bruno Cavanni was adjusting the trigger pull of a Colt shopkeeper. “I want that thing to go bang if I even breathe on the trigger,” the gambler who owned the piece had told him. Cavanni bent to his task and aimed to please.
He’d learned the gunsmith’s trade back in his native Italy at the workshop of the Fabbrica d’Armi Pietro Beretta in Gardone and at the age of seventy-seven was still considered by his contemporaries to be a maestro.
But Jasper Dunn didn’t give a hoot about all that, since it was he who beat the old man to death with the gambler’s hair-trigger Colt.
“Clean him out, boys,” Dunn said, dropping the bloody revolver on the floor beside the dead gunsmith. “Take everything that will fire a bullet and all the ammunition you can find.”
“Sporting rifles?” a man asked.
“I said everything,” Dunn snapped. “And put the CLOSED sign on the door.”
As life went on in the busy street outside, Dunn’s men carried the firearms to the horse-drawn wagon waiting in the alley behind the shop’s back door. In all, helped by a few of the Panther City Boys, Dunn and his cohorts stole thirty revolvers, seventeen rifles and a dozen shotguns.
Lonny Leon took a fancy to the shopkeeper Colt, wiped off the blood and stuck it in his waistband. He grinned at Dunn. “Now we’re rollin’, boss.”
Dunn shook his head. “We ain’t begun to roll yet, Lonny.” He pumped his fists and yelled, “Look out, Fort Worth, we’re coming to get ya!”
And this drew a cheer from the convicts within earshot.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Who’s that in the cell?” Kurt Koenig said.
“A wild man,” Jess Casey said. “And you’re not going to shoot him.”
“Wild men are not among my usual targets,” Koenig said with a faint smile. Then his face settled into grimness. “Jess, you’d better come with me. It’s outside your jurisdiction but I think you should be there.”
“What happened?” Jess said, fearing the worst.
He was not disappointed.
“Gunsmith’s store raided on Elm Street. The owner is . . . was . . . an old man named Bruno Cavanni. He was beaten to death.”
“And all his guns were taken,” Jess said.
“Yeah, and from what I hear, every last round of ammunition. Get your horse. It’s too far for a puncher to walk.”
“Crossing the street is too far for a puncher to walk,” Jess said. Then to Waters, “Stay right here until I decide what to do with you, Sam.”
“Is the big feller aiming to plug me?” Waters said, warily eyeing Koenig.
“Probably,” Jess said. “But if you do what you’re told I won’t let him.”
* * *
Elm Street was in a quiet area of town, well away from the noise and bustle of the Acre. The gunsmith’s shop was a small wooden building set back from the road among a grove of wild oak. A gravel path led to the door, where a number of people had gathered, among them Mayor Stout, an exclamation point of pomposity among the faceless crowd.
An indication of how seriously the mayor took the murder and robbery was the presence of his bodyguard, a seven-foot-tall Irishman named Barry Sullivan, whose enormous breadth of chest was made even wider by the two Remington revolvers he wore in shoulder holsters under his coat. The word going around was that he’d learned the shootist’s trade in Ireland and was a dangerous man to cross.
Stout immediately accosted Kurt Koenig. “A bad business, Kurt,” he said. “The theft of so many guns and ammunition warns me that there’s some threatening game afoot. I say, menacing, sir, menacing. By the Lord, that’s the word for it.” Then, before Koenig could get a word in, and for the benefit of the crowd, “I demand that something be done, Marshal, and quickly.”
Jess left Koenig and the mayor to their cussin’ and discussin’ and stepped into the store. The shelves, display cases and gun racks had been stripped bare and Bruno Cavanni’s body still lay where he’d fallen. Jess had been told that the Pinkertons were great detectives who could find clues overlooked by other lawmen, but he saw nothing of value. Kurt Koenig stepped inside, his marshal’s badge pinned to his coat, and Jess said, “I wish we had a Pinkerton.”
“Well, I don’t have one of them handy,” Koenig said. He looked angry. “Where’s the body?”
“Back here. I’m stepping into the alley for a look-see.”
* * *
The wheel tracks where the wagon had stood were still visible in the alley and many feet had churned the ground where the robbers had loaded the guns into the back. At least a dozen men, Jess reckoned, maybe more.
Kurt Koenig joined him and said, “See anything?”
“Look where they packed away the guns,” Jess said. “It took a lot of boots to kick up that much dirt.”
Koenig nodded. “There was a bunch of them, all right.”
The big man stood deep in thought and Jess said, “It wasn’t the Panther City Boys.”
“You a mind reader, Jess?” Koenig said.
“No, but I know what you were thinking. This robbery wasn’t pulled off by the Panthers.”
“I sure hope not,” Koenig said. “Most of those boys work for me and I’d hate to hang my own. So who do you think did it?”
“I need more time before I answer that,” Jess said. “The thing that troubles me is why the guns? Were they stolen for self-protection or something else? And the beating death of a harmless old gunsmith was the act of a madman. Is that what we’re facing, Kurt?”
“A madman with a gun?” Koenig said. “Plenty of those in Fort Worth. Hell, Luke Short could qualify.”
Jess allowed himself a smile. “He could, but Luke had nothing to do with this crime.”
“Then who did?”
“I told you, give me time,” Jess said.
Koenig nodded. “Well, while you’re playing for time I’ll have my boys round up every suspicious stranger in this town and check his bona fides. I’m not going to mess around with this, Sheriff. If I suspect someone then he’s gallows bait unless he can prove otherwise.”
“This crime is out of my jurisdiction, Kurt,” Jess said.
“Damn right it is, so stay out of my way.”
“And you’ll be judge, jury and executioner,” Jess said.
“That’s what I like about you, Jess,” Koenig said. “You catch on fast.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“He caught on fast, didn’t he?” Professor James Carnes said.
“Senator Jennings is not an unintelligent man, unlike the usual run of politicians,” said Charles Blair. He was the professor’s assistant, an earnest young man with brown hair and eyes and an unruly shock of rusty red hair. “He provided us with a golden opportunity.”
Carnes strolled to the hotel room window and stared outside at the traffic on Main Street. Without turning he said, “But do you think I convinced him?”
Blair smiled. “I really think he very much wanted to be convinced.”
“How many convicts was it?”
“Fifty-three, I believe.”
“Good, then you may take down my letter to Senator Jennings. Start with the usual greetings and about my tedious journey and safe arrival, and then—”
“Excuse me, Professor,” Blair said. He removed a piece of lint from the point of his steel pen and then said, “Now I’m ready.”
Carnes’s frown revealed his irritation. “Right, take this down:
“If fifty-three convicts can be returned to society and cause a minimum of disruption and show every indication that they plan to lead fine, upstanding lives then my theory that long prison sentences are useless and unnecessary will be proven without a doubt. I believe my research will reveal that, in a majority of cases, a custodial sentence of one to two years is enough to show any criminal the error of his ways, especially if our prisons are places of severe physical punishment. Spare not the rod, my dear senator, so that ere the prisoners are released they are already instilled with a horror of ever returning to such a terrible place as a federal penitentiary. Prisoners from Huntsville, where severest punishments are imposed even for minor infractions of discipline, are ideal subjects and I thank you once again for making me familiar with your own bold experiment. Your returning of hardened convicts to be nurtured at the sweet bosom of civilization was, to say the least, a masterstroke.”
Professor Carnes waved a hand. “I am, sir, your obedient servant . . . et cetera . . . et cetera. Did you get it all down?”
“Yes, Professor, I did,” Blair said. “It was very succinct and to the point.”
“Of course it was, my dear fellow. Professor James Carnes does not waffle. Now come, let us send the letter and then take a promenade around what is called Hell’s Half Acre. If there are already Huntsville prisoners at honest employ, that’s where we will find them, I’ll be bound.”
* * *
“You must understand, Sheriff . . . ah . . .”
“Casey. Jess Casey.”
“Sheriff Casey, you must understand that I have undertaken a most singular task. It is a matter of the greatest moment that I track down the Huntsville prisoners and ascertain how they have reintegrated, if you’ll excuse that word, with Fort Worth society.”
Jess nodded toward Sam Waters, who stood against the office wall and watched Professor Carnes and his assistant with wary eyes. “That’s one of them. But he’s a wild man and he bites.”
A reluctant smile touched Carnes’s thin lips. “You like your little jest, Sheriff.” He glared at Waters. “Come now, my good man, do you wish to return to Huntsville? Now? Ever?”
“Sure don’t, Perfesser, not now, not ever,” Sam said. “That ain’t no place for a Christian white man.”
Carnes’s smile grew. “Good, good, excellent,” he said. “And are you seeking honest, gainful employ?”
“If that means do I have a job, the answer is yes. I work for the sheriff.”
Carnes clapped his hands, as did his assistant. “Huzzah!” he said. “Do you have close friends from Huntsville who are also already employed?”
“It’s every man for his ownself in the pen, Perfesser. I didn’t make any close friends, nor distant ones, either.”
“Yes, yes, the dangers of . . . how many years of incarceration?”
“Nigh on sixty year. They forgot about me, like.”
“Oh my God,” Carnes said. “But nonetheless, Blair, this at least helps prove part of my theory that criminals can once again join society as productive citizens if prisons are made horrendous enough.”
“Indeed, Professor,” Blair said. “How were conditions in the penitentiary while you were there, Waters?”
Sam said, “I saw men happy to die because they knew hell would be a big improvement on Huntsville.”
“Wonderful! Excellent!” Professor Carnes said. “I know I’ll find some first-rate subjects here.”
“Professor, just what’s your game?” Jess said. The man irritated him.
“This is no game, Sheriff,” Carnes said. “If I can prove my theory here in Fort Worth it will change our entire penal system. Tell him, Blair.”
Blair explained to Jess about his boss’s belief in short prison sentences in sadistic hellholes that would terrify even the most hardened criminals back on the straight and narrow.
“It’s a revolutionary theory created by Professor Carnes, a man of destiny, and I’m proud to be associated with his work,” Blair said.
“Within one generation, perhaps two, there will be no more criminal class in our great nation,” Carnes said. “No one in his right mind will risk a year or two in one of my terror prisons.”
Jess glanced up from the makings in his hands. “So you think the convicts dumped here from Huntsville are so scared to go back that they’ll all settle down and become church deacons. Is that it?”
“Crudely stated, but that is my belief,” Carnes said.
“Not a hope in hell,” Jess said. “They’re already responsible for three robberies and one, possibly two murders, in this town. And they’re just getting started.”
“So you say, Sheriff, but I don’t believe you,” Carnes said.
Jess’s face was like stone. “Where are you from, Professor?”
“I hail from the great city of Boston, Massachusetts,” Carnes said.
“Out here, if you call a man a liar you better be ready to draw iron to prove it,” Jess said.
“I’m sure the professor did not mean to impugn your honesty, Sheriff,” Blair said.
“Then let him say it,” Jess said.
“Of course I didn’t,” Carnes said. He wasn’t afraid, merely irritated. “All I’m saying is that your own natives could have committed the crimes you mention. This is Hell’s Half Acre, after all, and I’m told that such things happen every day.” Then, his face severe, Carnes said, “Don’t stand in the way of progress, Sheriff.”
Jess smiled and said, “Gold watch and chain. Gold ring on your left hand. Diamond stickpin in your cravat and only you know how much money is in your wallet. A lot, I imagine. Go among those convicts and you’ll last less than an hour, Professor Carnes. That’s how long I give you to live in this town.”
“Balderdash! Nonsense! Foolishness! Empty words spoken by an ignorant bumpkin,” Carnes said. He turned away from Jess’s desk then said, “I wish you good-day, sir.”
Blair had the good grace to give Jess a sympathetic smile before he followed his boss out the door.
“That big-city dude has a heap to learn about the West, don’t he?” Sam Waters said.
“Yeah, and he’ll learn it the hard way,” Jess said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Ride with me, Sheriff,” Ford Talon said. “And I’d be obliged if you could loan me a Colt. I will not use Herb Coffin’s cursed revolver.”
Jess Casey smiled. “You planning to kill somebody?”
“If that’s the way the dice roll. Saddle up. We don’t have much time.”
Jess gave a mocking salute. “Yes, sir, Major.”
“You’re a general. You outrank me,” Talon said, smiling.
Sam Waters stared into Talon’s face for long moments, then said, “I’ll saddle your hoss, Sheriff.”
“Hold on, Sam, first I want to know what’s going on here,” Jess said.
“He’ll tell you on the trail,” Sam said. “There’s big trouble coming down and this man knows where.”
Sam hurried out of the office and Jess rose from his desk. “Talon, the old man saw something in your face that convinced him you’re on the level. After sixty years in Huntsville he can read a man and I’ve come to trust his judgment.”
“Trust your own judgment, Sheriff. And trust me enough to give me a gun. We’ve got lives to save.”
“Why should you care, Talon?” Jess said.
“If I didn’t care I’d never again be able to hold my head high in the company of men.”
* * *
The cabin was on Mustang Creek, a few miles south of Fort Worth. The rumor that reached the Acre, carried and embellished by punchers, was that Tom Williamson had struck it rich panning the creek and that now he, his wife and their two teenage daughters had salted away enough gold to keep a man in whiskey and whores for the rest of his life.
There never had been gold in Mustang Creek and most pegged the story as a big windy, but Lonny Leon and Jeb Curtis figured it was worth checking out, especially since the Williamson girls were said to be both pretty and willing.
“Lonny asked me to throw in with them,” Talon said as he and Jess Casey rode through rolling cactus and mesquite country under a burning sun. “But I made the excuse that my horse was lame.”
“You sure Leon and Curtis are headed to the Williamson place today?” Jess said.
“Yeah, it was all planned for today. They rode out maybe thirty minutes before I sneaked my horse out of Joe Jacobs’s livery. I owe for feed and a stall and he expects me to step to the mark and ante up.”
