Fatal Justice

by Ralph Compton

  There was a city ordinance against wearing firearms and Ash saw none in evidence. He wasn’t fooled. Most men carried a weapon. He had unbuckled the Remington revolver and placed it in his saddlebags but under his jacket was the Remington pocket pistol he had taken from Lonnie.

  Ash was weary. It had been a long ride. Most of the way he had to endure the blazing summer heat. It didn’t help that his attacks were more frequent and lasted longer. More and more he relied on the morphine. So much so, he was running low and needed to get his hands on more.

  Ash had injected before riding in. A pleasant sort of dreaminess had him in its grip, a sense that all was right with the world.

  The gaudy signs delighted him. There was Lizzie Preston’s, where a young lady stood on the porch welcoming visitors with a smile. The House of Rose had a rose garden out front. On the wide front door of the House of Mirrors hung a gilded mirror. Perhaps the most elegant establishment, and certainly the most famed of the bawdy houses, was Mattie Silk’s. It was rumored that Mattie’s clientele included many of the city’s most prominent and more than a few high in state government.

  Not to be outdone, the gambling houses were riots of bustle and noise. The Palace Variety Theater and Gambling Parlor was one of the more ornate. The Progressive Club catered to the rich. The Cricket Club, run by two gents from England, was known for its elegance.

  Ash drank it all in. He wondered why he had never visited places like this before. Most of his adult life he had stuck to the straight and narrow. He’d always done what he believed was right. Oh, he’d visited ladies of ill repute but not when he was married. Those were minor steps off the primrose path. Never once did he wholeheartedly plunge in.

  The thought troubled him. Here he was, on the brink of eternity, and there was so much of life he hadn’t tasted, so much he hadn’t done. He watched two ladies stroll by arm in arm and was filled with regret.

  Ash caught himself and reined to a hitch rail. He mustn’t second guess himself. That path could lead a man to blow his brains out. Climbing down, he looped the reins. His rifle in one hand and his saddlebags over his shoulder, he went up a short flight of steps and through a door. Above it was a sign: FRANNIE’S BOARDINGHOUSE. ROOMS BY THE DAY, WEEK OR MONTH.

  Across a small but lavish parlor was a counter. Behind it stood a buxom brunette with broad hips and full lips. She bestowed a friendly smile, and when he put his hand on the counter, she put her hands on his.

  “How do you do? All that dust, you’ve come a far piece.”

  Ash was about to inform her he came all the way from Texas but that might not be a good idea. “That I have, ma’am. I’d be obliged for a room. One that won’t cost me a lot and is private.”

  “All our rooms are private,” she said, and her finger caressed a circle on the back of his hand.

  “Would you be Frannie?”

  “Indeed I would. Frannie Crowse. I came here seven years ago and stayed to make my fortune.”

  “Have you?” Ash teased.

  “Not quite.” Frannie laughed. “But I have enough squirreled away that I won’t lack in old age.”

  Ash took on a room for a week. He let her know he might stay longer and she said that wouldn’t pose a problem. It was comfortably furnished, with a wine red carpet and red draperies and a painting of a nude woman in a revealing pose.

  Frannie noticed his glance. “She’s some looker, isn’t she? You wouldn’t know it to look at me now but I was a lot like her when I was her age.”

  “I took you for twenty-two at the most,” Ash said.

  “Oh, I like you.” Frannie patted his cheek. “I’m twice that, but keep it between us. A few of my customers think I’m Venus in the flesh.”

  “Tell me something. If you just got to town and had a full poke to spend, where would you head?”

  “Are you talking about yourself? You gave me the notion you don’t have much money.”

  “Some friends of mine came on ahead of me.” Ash made up another story. “I didn’t think it would be hard to find them but now I see I was wrong.”

  “Mister, you could look for a month of Sundays and not come across them. I wish you luck.” Frannie tapped her chin, then rattled off a list of establishments he should visit. “Anything else?”

  Ash remembered his supply of morphine. “As a matter of fact, there is. Where’s the nearest sawbones?”

  The doctor’s shingle was a small board with PHYSICIAN scrawled on it.

  Ash used the brass knocker. He was mildly surprised when a pretty young woman in a white uniform opened the door. “I thought this was the doctor’s.”

  “It is, sir. Please come in.”

  A foyer led to a waiting room. Several other patients were seated on a plush bench. Ash waited his turn, and when he was finally admitted, shook the hand of Dr. Wilson, a younger version of Doc Peters, complete with spectacles. Ash explained about the shooting and the pressure. Wilson had him strip to the waist and examined him. When he said Ash could get dressed, Ash responded with, “So you can see why I need more morphine. I’m running low and wouldn’t like to make do without.”

  Dr. Wilson was taking notes. He stopped writing and leaned back in his chair. “Before I prescribe more I have a few questions.”

  “What about?”

  “You.”

  “Me? What do you want to know? If you don’t believe what I’ve told you, you can check with Doc Peters or George Blocker.”

  “Oh, I believe you. Your wound, your irregular heartbeat, the lividity of your skin and other factors confirm your account. No, what I want to talk about is the morphine.”

  “I don’t savvy,” Ash admitted.

  “How long have you been using it?”

  “About two months. A little more.”

  “When you first started how often did you use it?”

  Ash shrugged. “Twice a day, if that. It depended on the pain. Some days were worse than others.”

  “How often do you use it now?”

  “Three or four times a day but again it depends on the pain.” To justify his need, Ash went on. “But you’ve got to understand. The attacks come one after the other and the pain has gotten a lot worse. A few times . . .” Ash hesitated. “A few times I thought about ending it.”

  “I see.” Dr. Wilson wrote something down. “Would it be safe to say that without the morphine you wouldn’t want to live?”

  “I don’t have long left as it is,” Ash said bitterly.

  “I am sorry about that. I truly am. There’s nothing I can do to help you in that regard. Your Doc Peters was right. You’d need the best surgeon there is, and there are no guarantees.”

  “I’ve been all through that.” Ash didn’t care to go through it again.

  “Yes. Yes. I’m sorry. Back to the morphine.” Wilson paused. “Did Doctor Peters discuss the tolerance factor with you?”

  “The what?”

  “The ability of the human body to tolerate various substances. Physicians call that tolerance. It’s a fundamental medical principle.”

  Ash gestured in irritation. “Make it simple, Doc. I never got around to reading a dictionary.”

  “Sorry. It works like this. The more of a given drug a person uses, the more their body becomes used to it.”

  “Like whiskey, you mean?”

  “An excellent example, yes. Someone who has never let liquor touch his lips will get drunk on one glass. If that same person keeps on drinking day after day, he builds up a tolerance to where he needs to drink an entire bottle to feel the same as he did when he had that first glass.”

  “Morphine is the same?”

  “I’m afraid so. The more of it you use, the more your body becomes accustomed, and the more you’ll need to cope with the pain.” Wilson frowned. “It’s a vicious cycle. Eventually you could reach the point where no amount of morphine helps.”

  “I doubt I’ll live that long.”

  “Perhaps not. But there is something else to consider. Have you eve
r heard of soldier’s disease?”

  Ash grinned. “The one men get from women?”

  Dr. Wilson smiled. “Not a sexual disease, no. Soldier’s disease has to do with morphine. During the war between the North and the South thousands of soldiers were wounded. Some lost arms. Some lost legs. To cope they were given morphine. After the war they went on using it. Even when the pain from their wounds had gone away, they went on using it.”

  In a burst of intuition Ash divined the reason but he asked anyway, his mouth suddenly dry. “Why?”

  “They couldn’t live without it. They became addicted, Mr. Thrall. The morphine became everything to them. They didn’t eat enough. They didn’t sleep enough. Gradually their bodies wasted away but they didn’t care. All they wanted was morphine.”

  Ash digested the revelation and let a wry smile curl his lips. “You say it took a while? I won’t have to worry about it, then.”

  “There’s evidence to suggest the addiction takes hold quickly. No one knows exactly how many doses, but I dare say that two months of use might be enough.”

  Ash didn’t say anything.

  “I took morphine once myself,” Dr. Wilson related. “I was chopping wood and missed a swing and cut my leg. The morphine killed the pain, as I knew it would. It also did more.” He seemed to grope for words. “It made me feel glorious. Like I was floating in a tub of pure rapture, if that makes any sense.”

  “It does.”

  “I realized then and there how easily those soldiers became addicted. Or how anyone else could.” Wilson gave Ash a pointed look.

  “Once again, Doc, I won’t live long enough for it to matter.”

  “Maybe not. I hope it doesn’t matter, for our sake. You have enough to deal with without that. It’s not pleasant to go through. You might think it would be, given the pleasure the morphine produces. But most describe it as a living hell.”

  Ash shuddered.

  Dr. Wilson gestured. “So, yes, Mr. Thrall. I’ll give you the morphine you want. Against my better judgment, you understand. A normal wound, I wouldn’t. Yours isn’t normal. You are an exceptional case and merit special treatment.”

  “I’m obliged.” Ash was torn between keen anticipation at getting more and dread at the consequences.

  Wilson started to get up but stopped and sank back down. “May I speak freely for a moment?”

  “I thought that’s what you have been doing.”

  “You have my deepest sympathy. I know your life has become a living nightmare, but I fear the worst is yet to come.”

  “Oh?”

  Dr. Wilson nodded. “It might become a contest, if you will, to see which kills you first, the slug lodged in your heart or the morphine. You’ll need a will of iron to cope. It could well be . . .” Wilson gnawed on his lower lip. “It could well be that the alternative you mentioned a while ago is your only way out.”

  “The what?”

  “Ending it.”

  “Oh.”

  Wilson tried to lighten the mood by joking, “Or you might want to pick a fight with the worst killer you can find and hope he does it for you.”

  Deep in Ash’s mind the seed of an idea took root.

  Chapter 11

  It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. At least haystacks stayed still.

  Two weeks went by and Ash couldn’t find a trace of Ben Sharkey. He went everywhere. He asked bartend ers, he asked brothel madams, he asked street vendors. He used he money he took from Lonnie to lubricate tongues and to keep them quiet about the lubricating. He became angry and then frustrated. Either Sharkey’s gang had left Denver or he had been lied to and Sharkey never intended to come to Denver in the first place.

  Two weeks and one day after his visit to Dr. Wilson, Ash got ready for a night out on the town. He was going to relax and enjoy himself. For one night he would try to forget about Sharkey and forget his vengeance. For one night he would do the things other men were doing. He would drink and gamble and find himself a willing lady.

  Ash hadn’t had an attack in several days. He had plenty of morphine, courtesy of Dr. Wilson, but he didn’t use it that evening. Both physicians had warned him that alcohol and morphine might not mix well, and Ash dearly wanted to get drunk. A man needed to now and then.

  Ash took a bath for the first time since his hunt began. He shaved. He put on his best suit. He brushed and polished his boots. He left his Remington revolver and holster in his room but wore the Remington pocket pistol under his jacket. Law or no law, he wasn’t going anywhere unarmed.

  The streets bustled with Denver’s nightlife. Ash breathed deep of the cool mountain air and drank in the sight of the seething sea of humanity. God, it felt good to be alive. Then he thought of the lead touching his heart and bitter regret smothered his elation.

  Ash hooked his thumbs in his vest and strolled along, letting whim dictate the direction he took. He passed gambling dens. He passed saloons. He passed bawdy houses where ladies smiled and beckoned and offered him their wares.

  It was intoxicating. Excitement bubbled in Ash at the tantalizing prospects the evening held. Those who walked the straight and narrow would say he had strayed off the primrose path and was adrift on the dark currents of sin.

  So what? he asked himself. What did he have to lose? He was dying. Besides, he’d never realized how grand sinning could be, how it could get into the blood and fill a person with a zest for life and a hunger for the unknown.

  Ash grinned and whistled and was in fine fettle when he came to a saloon tucked between two hotels. Finnegan’s, it was called. Owned by an Irishman, Ash reckoned. The exterior was tastefully painted a dark green with brown trim. The door opened onto carpeted elegance. Calling it a saloon was an injustice. This was an establishment for those who took their drinking seriously.

  Ash walked to the felt-covered bar and a bartender dressed better than he was came over and took his order. He asked for the best whiskey they had.

  Leaning back on his elbows, he sipped and savored while surveying the card games and the faro table and a game of dice. All done quietly, with none of the rowdy behavior one would expect. “I like this place,” he said out loud. He liked it a whole lot.

  “Do you, now?” asked a man in a distinct brogue. He wore a bowler and a suit and had mutton chops and a bushy mustache. Smiling, he offered a calloused hand. “O’Flynn’s the name. I’m a regular. Don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on you before.”

  Ash didn’t take offense at the man’s familiarity. Quite the contrary. He shook and offered to buy O’Flynn a drink and O’Flynn accepted.

  “Just passing through, are you?”

  Ash was about to explain about Sharkey but changed his mind. To hell with it. For one night Ben Sharkey didn’t exist. “Yes. On my way to California,” he lied for no particular reason.

  “Got the family with you, I’d imagine?” O’Flynn good-naturedly asked.

  “Family?” Ash said, and snorted. “God, I’m glad I’m not married. It would make this hell even worse.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Nothing,” Ash said quickly. He didn’t want false sympathy from a stranger.

  “I have a family,” O’Flynn revealed. “A darling wife and five wee ones. I love them dearly but the wife can be a nag when she’s not being darling and the wee ones can drive a man to pulling out his hair. So I come here every evening for a few drafts of the elixir of life and then it’s back to the banshees.”

  Ash laughed. “I envy you.”

  “I guess I am blessed.” O’Flynn drained his glass. “Say, how would you like to join some friends and me for a friendly game? The stakes aren’t high and the company is as polite as you’ll find anywhere.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Follow me, then.” O’Flynn winked at the bartender and walked down the bar and around toward a door at the back.

  “The game isn’t here?”

  “Sure it is. In the back, in a room we’ll have to ourselves. We�
��ll play in fine style.”

  O’Flynn wasn’t exaggerating. The room had thick carpet and a mahogany table and soft chairs instead of the usual hardbacks. The four men in the room proved as friendly as O’Flynn. They were dressed in good clothes and were smoking expensive cigars. Ash and O’Flynn claimed chairs and Ash took out his poke. He had plenty of money left and his poke bulged from the wad of bills and the coins.

  “Now, me boyos,” O’Flynn addressed the others. “This is my new friend, Mr. Thrall. I’ve invited him to a friendly game and that’s what we’ll have.”

  “No problem there,” said a round-faced gent whose balding pate gleamed in the lamplight. “We are always as friendly as can be.”

  For over an hour Ash immersed himself in good company and good whiskey. He won a few hands; he lost a few. He was at ease and content and had no objections when the man with the shiny head suggested they raise the stakes. He won a few more hands and then lost all he had won and began to eat into his poke, only ten dollars or so at a time so he didn’t think much of it. Then the man with the shiny head suggested they raise the stakes even more. The others agreed and looked at Ash.

  Ash deliberated. He needed the money he had left. He couldn’t conduct his hunt without it. Smiling and shaking his head, he said, “It’s getting a little too rich for my blood. I’m bowing out.”

  “Whatever you think best.” O’Flynn pushed back his chair. “Tell you what. I should be heading home my own self, so how about we go up front and I buy you a last drink?”

  Ash agreed and put his poke in his pocket. He stood and turned and was jolted by a hard blow to the back of his head that pitched him to the floor. Pain made his senses swim. He was vaguely aware of hands on his arms and of another hand groping under his jacket.

  “Got it.” That was O’Flynn.

  “You and Harry deal with him and get back here quick. The night is young yet. We can fleece two or three more sheep.”

  Ash kept his eyes closed. He figured that they figured he was unconscious.

  Two of them carried him out and turned toward the rear of the saloon.

  “For a big man he’s uncommon light.”