Only the third man who’d been in the game got a shot off. It went considerably wide and smashed a bottle on a shelf behind the bar. Glass and homemade whiskey sprayed over the back of Jeremiah Beebe, who was fumbling underneath the bar for something. He flinched automatically from the shower, which slowed him down long enough for Luke to kill the third card player with a bullet to the chest and then finish his spinning move.
The gun in Luke’s right hand smacked against the side of Beebe’s head just as the man came up with a shotgun. The blow sent his hat flying and made him drop the shotgun. He sagged over the bar, moaning as he put both hands to his head and the bloody gash that Luke’s gun had opened up.
Even with all the shots echoing in the place, Luke heard the curtain over the doorway being ripped aside. He twisted in that direction in time to see the final man emerge from the room where he’d been occupied with one of the squaws. Even a little tangled in the curtain, he managed to have a gun in his hand, and orange flame spouted from the muzzle as he fired.
That shot went wild, too, but Luke’s didn’t. He used the left-hand Remington to drill the man between the eyes. The bullet’s impact jerked his head back, but his momentum made him fall forward to land heavily on his face. Already dead, he didn’t feel any pain. He wore a set of long underwear with the back flap hanging open, and Luke wondered briefly just what the hell he’d been doing in there.
“Yaaaaahhhhh!”
The furious scream made Luke turn toward the Indian woman standing at the far end of the bar. A long-bladed knife was in her hand raised over her head, ready to strike as she charged at him.
Luke leveled the right-hand Remington at her and eared back the hammer. The woman stopped as short as she could, her face still contorted in anger.
“Go ahead and shoot her,” said the woman in the other corner who had been mending clothes. She still held one of the garments in her hands. “She is a filthy Crow and deserves to die.”
Luke grunted. “You must be the Blackfoot one.”
The woman shrugged and turned her attention back to her mending.
Keeping the woman at the bar covered with the Remington, he said, “I’m sure you understand English. Drop the knife.”
“You hurt Jeremiah,” she accused.
Luke glanced at Beebe, who was still slumped over the bar holding his head in his hands and whimpering.
“Hell, he hasn’t even passed out. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s still alive, which is more than any of those other men can say.”
That was true. The other six men were dead, gunned down by Luke in about as many seconds. It had been an incredible display of deadly gun handling, but he didn’t take any pride in it. The grim, ugly business was just something he had to be extremely good at in order to stay alive.
Beebe finally looked up. “Damn it, woman, put that knife down. You think this man won’t kill you just because you’re a squaw?”
“You’d be wise to do as he says,” Luke added.
The woman blew her breath out disgustedly, set the knife on the bar, and gave it a shove so that it slid along the planks out of her reach.
Luke let the hammer down carefully on the gun he had pointed at her. “Sorry about busting your head like that, Beebe. It could have been worse, though.”
“Yeah, I reckon. I suppose you’ll want all the money they’ve got in their pockets?”
“I’m not a common thief. Where’s the nearest town with a lawman, a telegraph office, and a bank?”
“That’d be Selby. Two-day ride from here.”
“South?”
“Yeah.”
Luke considered and nodded. That was the direction he’d been going anyway. He could cover some of the ground today and make it to Selby by the day after tomorrow, leading the dead men’s horses. The bodies would be pretty ripe by the time he got there, although the cold weather certainly would help on that score.
If it had been just one man, he might have said forget it and told Beebe to plant the carcass out back somewhere. But after going to the trouble to kill all six of them, Luke wanted to get something out of that much work.
Besides, even if the individual rewards weren’t that big, they might add up to a substantial chunk of change.
“You can have what’s in their pockets,” he told Beebe. “That might pay for the damages, although I’m not sure. After all, that was a bottle of your finest high quality liquor that got broken.”
“I do the best I can here to scrape by,” Beebe said sullenly. “You don’t have to make fun o’ me.”
“No, I suppose not. You’re right, Mr. Beebe. My apologies. The smell of gun smoke and freshly spilled blood sometimes puts me in a disagreeable mood.”
Beebe said, “Unnnhhhh . . .” and waved off the apology with a hand smeared with blood from the cut on his head.
Some business remained unfinished.
Luke said, “We were talking about some other gentlemen before all that unpleasantness broke out.”
“You mean before you started gunnin’ down ever’-body in the place?”
“Self-defense, Mr. Beebe, self-defense. Now, about Mitch Clark and the men who usually ride with him . . .”
“After all this”—Beebe stared at him and waved at the carnage—“you expect me to help you?”
“I expect you to be grateful I didn’t kill you, too,” Luke said bluntly. “Not to mention, I did agree to let you keep whatever is in their pockets without even checking them first.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Beebe took a deep breath and sighed. “Clark and some o’ his friends were here a couple days ago. Curly Weaver was with him . . . and Jed Darby. There were two more, some greaser I didn’t know and a kid wearin’ these real thick spectacles. I didn’t catch either o’ their names.”
“Hector Gomez and Blind Jimmy,” Luke murmured.
“Could be, but you couldn’t prove it by me.”
“Which way were they going when they headed out?”
“South,” Beebe replied with a nod in that direction, then winced, the movement making his head hurt.
“Did you happen to hear them say anything about where they were going or what their plans were?”
“No, I—” Beebe stopped short and frowned in what appeared to be genuine thought. “Wait a minute. I think I overhead one of ’em mention a name . . . Beaver? Was that it?” He answered his own question, saying, “No, no, hang on. There’s no owlhoot named Beaver, for God’s sake. Bleeker! That was it. One of ’em said somethin’ about a fella named Bleeker.”
Luke frowned. “Jim Bleeker?”
“I dunno, mister. I’ve already remembered more ’n I thought I was likely to. I don’t pay much attention to what these damn owlhoots go on about. Hell, it’d drive me loco if I did!”
Luke nodded slowly. The name Bleeker was familiar to him, of course. There had been a time, several years earlier, when Jim Bleeker had a big bounty on his head. Luke had never had a chance to collect it. He had never crossed Bleeker’s trail before the man wound up in prison down in . . .
Texas, Luke thought it was. Yes, San Antonio was where he’d been caught.
Luke hadn’t heard anything about Jim Bleeker since then. Was it possible the man was out of prison and putting together a new gang? Luke supposed it was, although it didn’t seem to him like enough time had gone by for that. Bleeker should have been behind bars for a long time yet.
“There’s nothing else you can tell me?” Luke prodded Beebe.
“My hand to God, mister,” the man said, “there sure ain’t.”
“All right.” Luke stepped over to one of the tables, set one of the Remingtons on it within easy reach, and started reloading the other gun. He picked up the one on the table and did the same then pouched both irons. “I’ll saddle the horses in the corral, then load up these men and get them out of here. You can go through their pockets while I’m tending to the horses. I’m afraid you’ll have to clean up the bloodstains yourself.”
“Oh, he
ll,” Beebe said, “I’ll get one of the squaws to do that.”
Luke was turning away when a woman’s voice said softly, “Mister.”
He stopped and looked over at the doorway to the room where the Indian women carried out their business. The third woman, the one he hadn’t seen until then, stood there halfway behind the jamb, nervous like a deer about to bolt. She had a blanket wrapped around her with one smooth brown shoulder showing. She was younger and more attractive than the other two.
The Shoshone, he thought. “Yes, miss?”
“The men you asked about . . . when they were here . . . the one with the”—she gestured vaguely at her eyes—“the one who cannot see well.”
“Blind Jimmy Pugh,” Luke said.
“When he was . . . with me . . . he said something about them going to Denver. He said they were going there to see a man named Morley about a job . . . and when they were finished with it, they would all be rich. He said he would come back here . . . and get me and take me away.”
Beebe snorted. “The hell he will. Men always get carried away and say things like that to women like you. They don’t mean it.”
Luke ignored the man and said to the young woman, “You’re sure he mentioned Denver and Morley?”
She nodded, tentatively at first, then with more certainty. “I knew not to believe him . . . but I think he meant it when he said it.”
“I’m sure he did,” Luke told her gently. He reached up and pinched the brim of his black hat. “I’m very much obliged to you for your help, miss.” He reached in his pocket, took out another half-dollar, and moved over to the doorway with the coin held out to her. He had to step around the dead man with his bare rear end hanging out of the longhandles. The woman pulled back at first, clearly frightened, then snatched the coin from his fingers.
“Do you need to get away from this place?” Luke asked her quietly.
He could tell that she considered the idea, but only for a second. “Where else would one like me go?”
She had a point there, he supposed, and besides, he wasn’t in the business of saving souls.
He was in the business of bringing outlaws to justice, by any means necessary.
At the moment, that meant hauling those carcasses to the nearest star packer, collecting whatever rewards were offered for them, and then heading for Denver to see what he could find out about a man named Morley who was looking to hire gunmen and killers.
And maybe, just maybe, how all that was connected to the infamous Jim Bleeker.
CHAPTER 10
New York City
The overcast of the day before had broken up without any snow or sleet falling, so Mercy Halliday was prepared to take that as a good omen. There were still clouds, but a brilliant blue sky showed through the gaps. Dressed in a dark green traveling outfit, she was perched on the seat of a wagon being driven through the streets toward the railroad station. A large black man named Nicodemus—handyman at the orphanage—handled the reins.
“You children quiet down back there,” he said over his shoulder in his deep, powerful voice. “You don’t want to spook these horses with all your chatterin’.”
Ten children, ranging in ages from six to fourteen, sat in the back of the wagon clutching bundles that contained their few meager belongings. Naturally, they were excited. They were setting out on a journey that would end with them being adopted into loving homes. That was what they all hoped for, anyway, and so they were laughing and talking among themselves with great anticipation.
Mercy glanced at them. Well, nine out of the ten are excited, she thought.
Caleb, his paper-wrapped bundle in his hands, was just sitting there, looking straight ahead and saying nothing.
Another wagon followed with Peter Gallagher handling the team. Like the first one, it carried ten orphans destined for new homes somewhere in the West. He wasn’t nearly as adept with the reins as the black handyman, but he managed to keep the wagon moving. His wife Grace sat beside him, bundled in a thick coat. Despite the sunshine, it was a chilly day, and she had often mentioned how cold weather didn’t agree with her thin blood.
The wagons pulled up in front of the massive train station. Mercy, Peter, and Grace supervised the unloading of the children and ushered them inside the cavernous building. Nicodemus would return one of the empty wagons to the orphanage, then walk back to get the other one.
When Mercy came back outside to bid him a quick farewell, he told her, “You be careful out there, Miss Mercy. It’s wild country.”
“I’ve been West before, Nicodemus,” she reminded him. “This isn’t my first trip.”
“No, ma’am. But you ain’t ever been as far west as you’re goin’ this time, and from what I hear, the farther west you goes, the more dangerous that frontier gets.”
“You mean from what you read in the dime novels and the Police Gazette,” she said, but her warm smile took any sting out of the words.
“You know I was born a slave down in Georgia, miss.”
“Yes, of course,” Mercy said solemnly.
“They wouldn’t allow us to learn how to read. That’s been one o’ the best things about bein’ freed and comin’ up here. I purely do love to read.”
“I’m glad you learned,” she told him. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher will be with me all the time, and from what I hear, California is actually quite civilized.”
Nicodemus looked skeptical. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Mercy, but the idea o’ Mr. Gallagher bein’ around don’t exactly fill me with confidence.”
“Peter does the best he can—”
“You best keep an eye on him, too,” Nicodemus said.
Mercy knew he was right, so there was no point in arguing with him. “I do hope this trip works out well for Caleb. Of all the children we’re taking with us this time, he seems to be the most in need of a good home.”
Nicodemus nodded gravely. “That little fella’s carryin’ around a mighty big weight o’ some kind, that’s for sure. It’s so heavy he can’t even bring himself to talk. Maybe a new family could lighten that load for him.”
“I certainly hope and pray that’s how it turns out.” She came up on her toes and brushed a quick kiss across the handyman’s silver-stubbled cheek. “Good-bye, Nicodemus. I’ll see you when we get back.”
“So long, miss. Godspeed to you.”
She went back into the station, joining the stream of humanity that thronged the place. It was even busier than usual. With Christmas coming up soon, a lot of people were traveling to see family.
If all went as planned, she would still be in California for Christmas, far from her own remaining relatives. In recent years, she hadn’t been as close to them. Her work . . . and the children . . . had become her family.
Someone jostled her, and she felt a brief flash of anger. It faded quickly because of her forgiving nature.
When the man who had bumped into her said, “Sorry, ma’am,” she responded with a smile.
“That’s quite all right,” she told him. “No harm done.”
“Well, I’d like to make it up to you anyway. If you’ve got a bag, I’d be glad to carry it for you.”
“My bags have already been loaded, but thank you anyway. There’s really no need for you to worry.”
“If you say so.” He smiled, which made his stern face appear not so forbidding. He was tall and on the lean side, with brown hair under the fedora he wore. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and went on. “Where are you bound?”
“Sacramento.” She couldn’t stop herself from adding, “Not that it’s any of your business, sir.”
He chuckled. “Then I beg your pardon again. I’m just naturally inquisitive, I guess. Sacramento’s nearly all the way at the other end of the country. That’s a long trip.”
“Yes, it is. And I have to be going now. . . .”
“Of course.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Can you say bon voyage to s
omeone who’s leaving on a train instead of a ship?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Then, bon voyage, Miss—” He stopped a little awkwardly.
Mercy thought for a second he’d been about to call her by name, but that was impossible, of course, since she had never been introduced to him or even seen him before their inconsequential collision a few moments earlier.
“Good-bye.” She turned and made her way toward the platform where the train bound for Sacramento was waiting.
Peter, Grace, and the children were all aboard, and soon they would be on their way to the destiny that waited for them.
* * *
Well, that was almost an extremely stupid mistake, Ed Rinehart told himself as he watched Miss Mercy Halliday weaving through the crowd toward the platforms. He had almost called the young woman by name when she was supposed to be just as much a stranger to him as he was to her. He wasn’t sure why he had almost made such an uncharacteristic slip-up.
Surely it couldn’t be because of that auburn hair or those devastatingly green eyes....
William Litchfield hadn’t said anything about the woman’s hair or eyes the day before when he was telling Rinehart and Cap Shaw about the Children’s Aid Society and the people who worked there. The detective thought back to the conversation.
* * *
“They’re devoted to finding homes for orphaned children,” Litchfield said as he sat in front of Shaw’s desk holding his wife’s hand. “I’ve made donations to them myself, and it’s a cause my late brother supported wholeheartedly. They take the children on trains and transport them to locations in the western part of the country where there are people looking to adopt.”
“That sounds like a very worthy effort, Mr. Litchfield,” Shaw said, “but with all due respect, what does it have to do with the murders of your brother and his wife, and your missing nephew?”
Rinehart was glad the captain asked the question, because he’d been wondering the same thing.
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