Death Rattle

by Jory Sherman

  Betty said nothing, nor did she look at Leffingwell disapprovingly.

  “Can you so testify, Miss Andrews?” the judge asked.

  “Why . . . I don’t know. There is a matter of loyalty to Mr. Wolfe and—”

  “Would you knowingly protect a criminal, Miss Andrews?” The judge looked judicial as he asked that pointed question.

  “Why, no, but I—”

  “Are you aware of a secret bank account involving this so-called Golden Council?”

  “I have seen this account, yes.”

  “And did you know about the delivery of those silver bars to Mr. Wolfe?”

  “I knew about them, yes. But I did not know they were stolen.”

  “From the Panamint Mine it says here,” Leffingwell said, looking at Pete.

  “I-I didn’t know, your honor,” she said.

  “This is all highly irregular. Horace, you’re in trouble. You could lose your notary license.”

  “I thought the sheriff was above reproach, sir. I took his word for that affidavit.”

  “Which now appears spurious,” the judge said.

  There was a knock on his door.

  “Yes, come in,” Leffingwell said.

  The clerk poked his head in.

  “Court, your honor. We’re ready to begin.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes, Robert.”

  The clerk closed the door.

  “Stephen, do you have anything to say about any of this?”

  “Not at this time, Dewey. But Horace is my client. Should you deem it necessary to press charges—”

  “I’ll consider all factors. Mr. Farnsworth, I’m going to issue you these warrants. You may search Mr. Wolfe’s home and office to look for specific evidence. You may not take the law into your own hands.”

  “I understand, Judge.”

  “As for Sheriff Jigger, this is most disturbing, and I will see what we can do about investigating these charges of conspiracy, extortion, and the removal of Mexicans from this community.”

  “And our detective agency stands ready to help, Judge,” Pete said.

  “Very well. I’ll have Robert draw up the search warrants and I’ll sign them on the bench. You can wait in the courtroom, Mr. Farnsworth. The rest of you can go about your business. And, Miss Andrews, not a word about this to Mr. Wolfe, hear?”

  “Yes, Judge. I won’t say a word.”

  Finwoodie and Killbride walked across the street to the lawyer’s office.

  “Thanks, Betty,” Pete said as he bid good-bye to her on the courthouse steps. “I’ll take you to supper one of these nights, if you’re not mad at me. Or even if you are.”

  “I’m not mad at you. But you’ve put me in an awkward position at the bank.”

  “One day, when this is all over, you’ll thank me.”

  She sighed and waved good-bye. He watched her trip down the steps and walk away in the golden sunlight. When she was gone, he felt a longing in his heart and a touch of shame that he’d had to put her through this without warning.

  But the world was full of surprises, and he vowed that he would make it up to her.

  He surely would do that, and perhaps . . . but he did not want to think any further than that one small thing. She was a beautiful woman and an honest one. And he was single and his blood ran hot every time he saw her.

  That told him something.

  That told him a lot.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Julio and Carlos found the table where Brad and the others were sitting. They sat down, and Brad introduced Julio as the father of a brand-new baby boy.

  Julio’s grin was as white as a freshly painted picket fence.

  “I ordered food trays sent up to my room for Pilar and Felicity. Pilar and the baby can stay with her while we do what we have to do,” Brad said.

  “Good,” Julio said. “They are both hungry. They are both spoiling my son.”

  “Have you named the lad yet?” Quince asked.

  “Pilar named him Santiago, and I named him Fidel.”

  “But he will have more names when he is baptized,” Carlos said. “Maybe one of them will be Carlos.”

  “Was there a saint named Carlos?” Brad asked, and the others all laughed.

  “Well, it will not be Brad, maybe,” Carlos retorted. “Saint Brad. I do not think so.”

  “Better order up,” Brad said. “We’ve all got a full day ahead of us.”

  He turned and summoned the waiter with a hand signal. The waiter pranced over to their table, notepad in hand. “Are you ready to order, gentlemen?” he asked, an oddly feminine tone to his voice.

  Quince ordered first, followed by Wally, Julio, and Carlos.

  The waiter took down their orders and looked questioningly at Brad.

  “Nothing for me. Just keep the coffee coming.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “You’re not eating, Brad?” Quince asked after the waiter had left.

  “I always hunt on an empty stomach.”

  “And what do you hunt this day?” Julio asked. His face shone with all the innocence of a penitent absolved of all sin, of a father who had seen his newborn son and realized that all was right with the world.

  “I hunt a man who hates Mexicans,” Brad said, and the radiance faded from Julio’s face.

  “Who is this man?” Julio said, the blood rising in his bronze face until it was flushed with vermilion.

  “The sheriff of Leadville,” Brad replied.

  “You still haven’t told me—” Quince started to say.

  “It’s between you and me, Quince. When we leave here, I’ll lay it all out for you.”

  “I want to hunt him, too,” Julio said. “This man who hates Mexicanos.”

  “I’m waiting for Pete to show up. We’ll see what he wants to do.”

  Pete arrived as the men were finishing their breakfasts of eggs, beefsteak, ham, and fried potatoes.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, patting his satchel. “But I had to see the judge. I’ve got search warrants for that banker Wolfe’s house and his office in the bank.”

  “Good work,” Brad said.

  Pete turned to Wally.

  “Still got your badge, Wally?”

  “It’s in my pocket.”

  “I also have an arrest warrant for Alonzo Jigger.”

  “You want me to arrest him?” Wally’s face twisted as if he had been kicked in the gut. It swarmed with a blur of emotions.

  Before Pete could answer, Brad scooted his chair back and waved him to silence.

  “Pete,” he said, “I’m going after Jigger. Quince is going to help me.”

  “I see. You want the warrant, then? As a private detective, you’re authorized to serve it.”

  “Do you think Jigger would honor that warrant, Pete?”

  “A man who would gun down three innocent men in cold blood would probably not allow you to arrest him. What do you plan to do?”

  “The less you know about that, the better off you are, Pete.”

  “I understand.”

  “You don’t want to be an accomplice,” Brad said.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Now, Pete, what are you going to do? You have three men at your disposal: Wally, Julio, and Carlos.”

  “Can we meet later today? This afternoon? I think we might be able to run this Golden Council to the ground with six of us going after them.”

  “Name the place,” Brad said.

  “How about the livery stable? Just before dusk. That’ll give me time to serve these warrants and maybe pick up a trail or two.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” Brad said.

  He stood up, nodded to Quince.

  “Good luck, Pete.”

  “You, too, Brad.”

  Pete watched Brad and Quince walk out of the dining room. For a few moments there seemed to be only the tinkle of glasses and the clink of knives and forks, as if time itself was suspended and only those seated at the big round table in
the center of the room were frozen and still in that moment.

  “Put your badge on, Wally,” Pete said. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “You ain’t gonna eat nothin’?”

  Pete poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it down.

  “No. Maybe after we’ve finished the job.”

  The waiter simpered up to the table.

  “Will there be anything else this morning, gentlemen?” he asked. He fluttered a bill in one hand so that it looked like a paper hanky.

  “I’ll sign that,” Pete said. “This is on the Denver Detective Agency.”

  “Of course,” the waiter said and laid the bill in front of Pete. He handed Pete a pencil. Pete signed it and added a gratuity.

  The waiter looked at the amount of the tip and said, “My, my, sir. How terribly generous.”

  He waited for a response, but Pete ignored him.

  “I think he likes you, Pete,” Wally said, a sly grin on his face.

  “Wally, sometimes you think too much. Now, pay attention, all of you. Here’s what we’re going to do for most of the day.”

  The men talked for another ten minutes, nodding that they understood their mission.

  “I think a lot of the gang, if not all of them, are holed up here in town. I think they’ll make some calls on shopkeepers and store owners and try to sign them up for protection money. I think they work in pairs during the day, from what I’ve been able to find out. Tonight, some or all of them will attack those holdouts and beat them up. That’s when they’ll be on horseback and wearing those yellow hoods. By then, we should have Brad and Quince back with us, and we can look for those men and stop them in their tracks. Seems like they do their night work in groups of four. Sound like something you can all do? Follow me as we comb the town for these cowardly bastards.”

  “Damned right,” Wally said.

  “Sure,” Julio said.

  “Jess,” Carlos said in his thick Mexican accent.

  The four men got up from the table a few minutes later. They marched out of the room in a straight line like soldiers going to the front lines of a battle.

  Some of the other diners looked at them and wondered if there was a war going on.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sheriff Jigger was mad as hell. He kept looking at the big Waterbury clock on the wall and out the window.

  “Where in hell is Wally?” Jigger roared.

  Percy Willits sat at Wally’s desk, strumming one pocket of his overalls with nervous fingers.

  “Maybe he’s sick,” Willits offered, all but squirming in his seat. He was decidedly uncomfortable, as Jigger well knew. “I mean, you said he tossed up his supper last night.”

  “He’s a damned pussy, is what he is,” Jigger raged. “I ought to wring his sorry neck.”

  The door opened and Jigger whirled around to see if it was Wally. At last.

  Zeke Hunsacker drooped into the office, a shotgun in one hand, three pairs of handcuffs in the other. He walked to Jigger’s desk and dropped the handcuffs onto it in a jingling heap. He unloaded the double-barreled shotgun and stored it in the gun cabinet.

  Jigger stared at the handcuffs for a long moment.

  “Zeke, you got some explainin’ to do,” Jigger said. “You took three prisoners to court with charges of drunk and disorderly. Where in hell are they?”

  Percy adjusted his position and sat up straight to hear what Hunsacker had to say.

  “Can I sit down, Sheriff? It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Sit.”

  “Well, sir, I took them three Mexes to court with the charges you drew up, sat ’em all down, and handed the papers to the bailiff, old Charlie Boggs. Then I waited for the judge to call our cases.”

  “So, did he try those Mexes?” Jigger asked, his voice laden with the sour syrup of sarcasm.

  “When their cases was called, I took ’em up to the judge’s bench. They was in handcuffs, and the judge ordered me to take ’em off.”

  “Why in hell did Leffingwell do that?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. And then he asked old Charlie to read off the charges and tell him who had signed the documents. Charlie told him you did, Sheriff, and then the judge asked them Mexes if any of them was represented by counsel.”

  “He asked that?”

  “Yes, sir, he did, and them Mexes didn’t know what he meant. The judge said did they have an abogado, and they all said no and shook their heads.”

  “Hell, they don’t need no damned abogado. They was all guilty of drunk and disorderly.”

  Some of the surviving flies began to emerge from the cracks in the walls and take flight, their wings setting off a sound like bacon sizzling in a frying pan. Jigger ignored them, the anger rising in him like mercury in a thermometer. His face turned red and his neck bulged out like a rutting bull elk.

  “Judge didn’t see it that way, Sheriff. He told the bailiff to go acrost the street and fetch one of them attorneys. He said Leadoff or Finwoodie, either one, and the bailiff came back with Finwoodie, and the judge asked him to represent them three Mexes and gave him ten minutes to jabber with them.”

  “And then what?” Jigger demanded. He snatched at a buzzing fly and missed, his empty fist flashing past his face in silent futility.

  “Finwoodie said he was ready, and he said all them Mexes pled ‘not guilty,’ and when the judge asked why you wasn’t there, I told him I was the witness like you told me.”

  “Oh, you dumb bastard,” Jigger said.

  “Well, you said—”

  “I told you to tell the judge that you saw me bring them Mexes in and that they were all drunk as hoot owls.”

  “Yeah, Jig, I told the judge that, and then Mr. Finwoodie asked me did I see them drunk in a public place and did I see them cause any disturbances.”

  “And what did you say to that, Zeke?” Jigger looked apoplectic, and Percy covered his mouth to suppress a smile.

  “I told him I never saw ’em ’cept when you brung ’em to the jailhouse, and Finwoodie asked the judge to dismiss their cases ’cause of insufficient evidence.” Zeke paused and wiped saliva from the corners of his mouth with a grimy paw. “And Judge Leffingwell up and dismissed all charges, demanded the prisoners be released, and after he thanked Mr. Finwoodie, he called the next case.”

  Jigger sucked in a breath and blew it out through his flared nostrils.

  “Well, I’ll be a bowlegged, hog-faced, gaul-fisted, two-bit son of a bitch,” Jigger said. “If that don’t beat all.”

  “I done the best I could, Jig.”

  Jigger just stared at Zeke with a mix of contempt and pity, his scathing look more powerful than any words he could muster to take out his anger at the judge on Hunsacker, who was the closest target for his wrath.

  Percy glanced at the window as a man blocked the sun and threw his shadow inside the office for a brief moment.

  Quince entered the office. He held one of the wanted dodgers in his hand. He was out of breath and panting, as if he had run a hundred-yard dash.

  “Who in hell are you?” Jigger demanded.

  “I come to claim this here reward,” Quince said, striding to the desk and shaking the flyer in Jigger’s face.

  Jigger leaned back in his chair, aghast at the intrusion.

  “You got Storm? Is he dead?”

  “Oh, I got him all right, Sheriff. He ain’t dead, but he’s bad hurt. This here paper says ‘dead or alive,’ and I want my two hunnert dollars.”

  “Hold on, old-timer,” Jigger said, rising from his desk, a look of eager anticipation on his face. “I got to see Storm and put him in the hoosegow afore I pay out any reward money. Where in hell is he?”

  “I’ll take you to him. He’s bad hurt, Sheriff, and he ain’t goin’ nowhere. But we gotta be quick.”

  “How come?”

  “He’s trickier than a fox. I spotted him, and he tried to get away. But I was too smart for him. Foller me and I’ll take you right to him.”

  “Let�
�s go get that murderin’ bastard,” Jigger said. “You just lead the way. Do I need my horse?”

  “Nope. I walked over here. We ain’t got far to go.”

  Jigger grabbed the edge of the flyer in Quince’s hand, but the drover pulled it back.

  “I’m keepin’ this,” he said and folded it up, stuffed it in his back pocket. “I want that reward for catchin’ Storm.”

  “You’ll be paid as soon as I have that criminal locked up in this jail.”

  He turned to Percy as he followed Quince to the door. “You boys stay here and wait for me. I’ll be back with my prisoner in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “Yes, sir,” Percy said.

  “Yep, sure thing, Sheriff,” Zeke said.

  The two watched Jigger and Quince pass in front of the window.

  “Boy, you’d think Jig had struck the mother lode,” Zeke said. He wiped saliva from the corners of his mouth.

  “A bird in the hand, Zeke,” Percy said.

  “Huh?”

  “A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush. Jig’s got him a bird in the bush. He don’t have nothin’ in his hand.”

  “Hell, that man said—”

  “You know what they call that man what’s got a reward out for him?”

  Zeke picked up one of the flyers on Jigger’s desk.

  “It says here ‘Brad Storm.’”

  “Yeah, that’s his name. But they call him Sidewinder.”

  “You mean like a—a rattlesnake?”

  “Yeah, a rattlesnake. That’s what Jigger’s goin’ after.”

  “Not a bird, but a rattlesnake,” Zeke said.

  “And not no bluebottle fly, neither,” Percy said cryptically.

  The flies circled and sizzled the air with the beat of their wings. They rose and fell and landed and supped stale bear claw crumbs and coffee stains. They flitted through sun-beams like tiny green skyrockets, diminutive buzzards searching for rotting meat or fresh blood.

  THIRTY

  The four men entered the Leadville Bank & Trust building. Wally, Carlos, and Julio followed Pete into the lobby.

  A guard in a light tan uniform stood just inside the massive doors, wearing a Sam Browne belt, a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, a leather cartridge case, and a nightstick.