Dead Man Walking

by William W. Johnstone

  Prentice laughed.

  “Better than you have tried, sweetheart.”

  “There you go with that sweetheart business again. I wouldn’t be your sweetheart if you were the last man on earth, Prentice.”

  “If I was the last man on earth, you’d be out of luck, Miss Smith, because I’d rather cuddle up to a diamondback rattler than you.”

  As he rode beside the buggy, John Henry fervently hoped that the two of them weren’t going to keep up this squabbling the whole time they were all stuck in Copperhead.

  If they did, he might be ready to shoot them himself by the time they got out of town.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The settlement hadn’t changed in the short time they’d been gone, not that John Henry expected that it would have. He saw a lot of curious faces peering at them through windows in the buildings they passed. He suspected that he and his companions were the first ones to discover the town was quarantined.

  Prentice brought the buggy to a stop in front of the hotel. He told Penelope, “You sit right there and don’t make a move while we’re getting Denton out of the back. Try anything funny and I’ll knock you out, I swear it.”

  “I’m not surprised that you’d threaten to beat a woman,” she said.

  “You’re not a woman. You’re a counterfeiter.”

  Penelope sniffed and looked away.

  John Henry dismounted while Prentice looped the reins around the buggy’s brake lever. The Secret Service man put a hand on the brass trim and vaulted to the ground. A step brought him to the back of the vehicle. He reached behind the seat to grab hold of Clive Denton while John Henry stood by waiting to help.

  Suddenly, Prentice recoiled as if he had reached into the back and closed his hands around one of those diamondback rattlers he’d mentioned earlier. He took a step away, and his head snapped around so that he could look over at John Henry. Surprise and something else—horror?—were etched on his face.

  “Denton,” he said. “I touched his jaw when I went to take hold of his coat.” Prentice swallowed. “He’s burning up. He’s got the fever.”

  John Henry stiffened. He knew that Denton hadn’t said much since cursing him and Prentice as they put him in the buggy. John Henry hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the man then, nor had he given any thought to the fact that Denton had gotten quiet.

  Now he stepped closer to the buggy and peered into the back. Denton was conscious, but his eyes had a glassy look to them, as if he wasn’t really seeing what he was looking at. His face was flushed, too.

  “Good Lord!” Penelope exclaimed. “Let me out of here.”

  She started to scramble down from the buggy in an obvious attempt to get away from Denton. Prentice caught hold of her arm. She let out a little scream.

  “Let go of me!” she cried. “You touched him! You’ve probably got the stuff!”

  Prentice had gone pale under his tan. John Henry felt a little washed out himself. He remembered how his face had been only inches away from Denton’s when they were fighting in the hotel room. Denton’s breath had blown in his face again and again.

  The contagion might already be in his body, John Henry realized, growing and spreading, even though he felt fine at the moment.

  Maybe Baird Stanton had been right to turn them back after all, he thought.

  “All right, let’s all settle down,” he said, trying to inject some reason back into the conversation. “Prentice, how do you feel?”

  “Fine right now,” the Secret Service man answered. “I still have a little headache, but that’s just from being pistol-whipped. It’s bound to be.”

  John Henry thought that was likely, too. He turned to Penelope and asked, “What about you?”

  “I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “But I don’t want to be. I’m scared.”

  “There’s no point in being scared,” John Henry said. “You’re either infected or you’re not. That’s true for all of us. There’s not much we can do about it. We’re stuck here anyway, so we’ll just take care of Denton the best we can and wait it out.”

  “He was here several days ago,” Penelope said. “That must be when he caught it. He scouted the place, then came back down to Oakland to meet me . . .” A shudder ran through her. “My God. He kissed me . . .”

  “All we can do is wait,” John Henry said again, keeping his voice level and calm. “People can be exposed to an illness without catching it.”

  “One like this, that spreads so fast and is so dangerous?” Penelope sounded skeptical. “What are the chances of that?”

  “I reckon we’ll find out,” John Henry said. “Come on, let’s get Denton back inside the hotel.”

  Prentice let go of Penelope’s arm, but he pointed a finger at her and warned, “Don’t run off. The mood I’m in right now, if you try to I’m liable to just shoot you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she told him with a toss of her head. “That would be murder, and you’re supposed to enforce the law, not break it.”

  John Henry stepped over to the buggy. He was loath to reach in and take hold of Denton, but somebody had to. He told himself that it wasn’t any riskier than fighting with the man had been. Probably less so.

  The front door of the hotel opened, and Weaver stepped out onto the boardwalk with a shotgun in his hands. He pointed the twin barrels toward the buggy and said in a quavery but loud voice, “You folks aren’t coming back in here. I was in the lobby and I heard what you were saying about that fella being sick. Not one of you is setting foot in this hotel!”

  John Henry reined in the angry, frustrated response he wanted to make. Instead he said, “Be reasonable, Mr. Weaver. We’ve all been in there already. We spent the night there. Keeping us out now won’t make you or your other guests any safer.”

  “You don’t know that,” Weaver snapped. “You’re a lawman, not a doctor. So the way I see it, the best thing I can do is keep you out. I don’t want to shoot anybody, but I will if I have to.”

  John Henry realized that the sickness gripping Copperhead had one bad side effect nobody had mentioned so far: it made folks loco. Actually, it made apparently healthy people so scared of getting sick that they grabbed guns and tried to keep the sickness at bay with threats.

  Vowing not to succumb to those feelings himself, John Henry said, “We need someplace to stay. Some men from Oroville have closed off the road east of here. They’re not going to let anybody in or out of Copperhead until the sickness has had time to run its course.”

  “That sounds like something those no-good skunks from Oroville would do,” Weaver said, demonstrating that even under these dire circumstances he still had some civic pride. “But I can’t help you anyway, Marshal. I don’t care where you go, you just can’t stay here.”

  “What about the jail?” Prentice suggested. “I know you said the town marshal is sick, but if we’ve already been exposed, what does it matter?”

  “I suppose we can give it a try,” John Henry said.

  He pointed out the lawman’s office, which was close by. Prentice got back into the buggy, casting leery glances toward Denton as he did so, and swung the vehicle around so that it was in front of the marshal’s office and jail. John Henry walked over to the building, leading Buck and herding Penelope along with a hand on her arm.

  “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” she muttered.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “That’s just it. You don’t. None of us do.”

  John Henry hoped the situation wasn’t quite that bleak, but for all he knew, Penelope was right. Their fate was probably in other hands now.

  Prentice had gotten out of the buggy by the time John Henry and Penelope stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the marshal’s office. He banged a fist on the door and called, “Marshal! Marshal, are you in there?” He turned his head to look at John Henry. “Do you know his name?”

  “Ledbetter, I think,” John Henry said.
r />   Prentice tried again, calling, “Marshal Ledbetter! Hey!”

  There was still no response. John Henry said, “Keep an eye on Penelope,” and stepped past Prentice. He tried the knob.

  The door wasn’t locked.

  John Henry’s instinct was to put his hand on his gun as he opened the door with his other hand, but he reminded himself that the only threat inside the office wasn’t the kind you could deal with by using a bullet. He pushed the door back and said, “Marshal Ledbetter?”

  When there was no answer, he stepped inside. The office was cloaked in gloom because the shutters were closed over the windows. A rectangle of light slanted in through the open door, though, and it revealed the denim-clad legs of a man sticking out from behind an old, paper-littered desk with a scarred top.

  “Marshal Ledbetter?” John Henry said again, but the sight of those motionless legs told him he wasn’t likely to get a reply. He moved deeper into the office, circling so that he could see behind the desk.

  Ledbetter lay on his belly with his head turned to the side so that his face was visible. He looked a little like he was asleep. John Henry couldn’t tell if the local lawman had collapsed like that, or if the last of his strength had deserted him and he’d stretched out on the floor to rest.

  Either way, he wouldn’t ever be getting up again under his own power. His eyes were open wide and staring, but he couldn’t see anything. They were as glassy as marbles. John Henry approached the marshal warily and reached down to rest the back of his hand against Ledbetter’s cheek.

  He wasn’t burning up with fever anymore. He was cold.

  Cold and dead.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The day before, when John Henry had talked to Marshal Ledbetter, he’d been able to tell that the man was very ill. Obviously Ledbetter had been in the final stages of the fever, and it had claimed his life either later that day or during the night.

  He stepped back outside and told Prentice, “The marshal’s dead.”

  Penelope said, “Does that mean it’s safe to go in there now? We can’t catch the fever from him?”

  “I’m no doctor, but that seems reasonable to me. We’ve still got Denton to deal with.”

  “Are the cells empty?” Prentice asked.

  “Yeah. The place is empty except for Ledbetter’s body.”

  “We can lock Denton in one of them, then, and his lady friend here can take care of him.”

  “Clive and I were business partners, nothing more,” Penelope snapped. “Well . . . maybe a little more. But I never signed on to play nursemaid to him while he’s dying of some pestilence.”

  “You’re really warmhearted, aren’t you?” Prentice said.

  “I don’t see you volunteering to wipe his forehead with a wet cloth.”

  Wearily, John Henry said, “Let’s just get him inside. You want the shoulders or the feet, Prentice?”

  “I’ll take the feet,” the Secret Service man said. He nodded to Penelope and went on, “Hadn’t we better put this one in a cell first? Otherwise she’s liable to make a break for it while we’re occupied with Denton.”

  “Really?” Penelope said. “Where the hell would I go? The road’s blocked in both directions, and I’m not exactly the sort to go traipsing off over the mountains.”

  “She’s got a point there,” John Henry said with a faint smile.

  “All right. But don’t you try to run off,” Prentice said to Penelope. “If you do, I’ll paddle your butt until you’re too sore to walk, let alone run.”

  “Try it,” she snarled at him, “and I’ll carve your heart out with my fingernails if I have to.”

  While Penelope stood by watching, John Henry and Prentice lifted Denton out of the buggy. The man was muttering incoherently, but he wasn’t actually conscious. As John Henry gripped Denton under the arms, he could tell even through the clothing how hot the man was. Denton’s brain had to be baking inside his skull.

  After making Penelope go in first so they could keep an eye on her, they carried Denton through the marshal’s office into the cell block and placed him on the bunk in the first cell on the right. As they went back into the office, John Henry said, “Actually, wiping his face with a wet cloth is a good idea. That might cool him off a little. I’d like to keep him alive if we can.”

  “So would I,” Prentice said. “He’s our only real lead to O’Reilly . . . assuming Miss Smith is telling the truth.”

  She sneered at him.

  “You’re going to be Denton’s nurse, whether you like it or not,” Prentice went on.

  “You can’t make me do that.”

  “Damn right I can. You’re our prisoner.”

  “You can’t force me to associate with somebody who’s deathly ill. It . . . it wouldn’t be humane!”

  “He’s your partner, remember.” Prentice nodded toward the marshal’s body. “Or maybe you’d rather drag that corpse down to the undertaker’s.”

  Penelope glared, as usual, but after a moment she said, “All right. Find me a basin or a bucket and some water and rags, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  While Prentice was doing that, John Henry walked back over to the hotel, stood in front of the two-story building, and called, “Mr. Weaver!”

  The nervous-looking proprietor opened the door and stuck his head out.

  “What do you want now?”

  “You’ve got an undertaker in this town, don’t you?”

  “Of course we do. Claude Richardson. Two blocks down and around the corner. Is that fella Munroe dead already?”

  “His name’s really Denton,” John Henry said, although once he thought about it he realized he didn’t know if Clive Denton was any more the man’s real name than Edward Munroe was. “And no, he’s not dead, but your marshal is.”

  “Marshal Ledbetter? Damn it! Where’s this filthy stuff going to end?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” John Henry said. “I wish I did.”

  He found the undertaking parlor and called Claude Richardson’s name. A mild-looking, mostly bald man came to the door. He looked to be healthy enough at the moment.

  “What can I do for you, son?” he asked.

  “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Sixkiller,” John Henry introduced himself. “I came to tell you that Marshal Ledbetter has passed away and needs your attention.”

  Richardson grimaced. He sighed and said, “Can’t really say that I’m surprised. Put him out front of the jail. I’ll bring my wagon and come get him.”

  “You’re not afraid to handle him?”

  “Pestilence rarely survives the death of its host, Marshal. It should be safe enough to lay him to rest properly.” The undertaker sighed again. “Lord knows I’ve had to do it often enough the past few days, and I’m still all right as far as I can tell. I sent all my helpers home to their families. I won’t put them at risk.”

  “You’re digging the graves by yourself?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll give you a hand. Got to warn you, though, I’ve been exposed to the sickness myself. Feel fine so far, but you never know.”

  “It’s possible the whole town has been exposed,” Richardson said. “We don’t know how long it takes before symptoms start to appear.”

  “That’s what I figured, too. It doesn’t hurt anything to be careful, though.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Although man’s caution doesn’t really amount to much in the face of destiny, does it?”

  “Not a whole lot,” John Henry agreed.

  * * *

  When he got back to the jail, he looked in the cell block and saw that Penelope was sitting on a three-legged stool next to the bunk where Denton lay. A bucket was on the floor beside her. She dipped a rag into the bucket, soaked it with water, wrung it out until it wasn’t dripping, and swabbed it over the unconscious man’s face.

  Prentice stood across the aisle with a shoulder propped against the iron bars of another cell. With a note of reluctant admiration in his voice, he said
, “She’s doing a good job. It may be my imagination, but I don’t think Denton looks quite as flushed now.”

  “He’s still really hot,” Penelope said without looking up from her task. “So hot his skin dries the rag out almost as quick as I can get it wet.”

  “Keep it up,” John Henry told her. “That’s all anybody can do for him right now. If we were back in Indian Territory, I could probably find some old Cherokee woman who could make a tea from some roots and herbs that would help him, but I don’t know anything about the plants around here.”

  “And if we were someplace civilized,” Prentice said, “there would be more doctors, and they would know what they were doing. No wonder people out here are so afraid of fevers. They make you feel helpless.”

  “We’ll do what we can,” Penelope murmured.

  Prentice grunted and asked, “Since when did you become so compassionate? I thought you didn’t care what happened to Denton.”

  “I’d hate to see even an animal that was this sick.”

  “I’d probably feel more sympathetic if it was an animal.”

  “That’s because you don’t have any human feelings.”

  John Henry said, “You know, the two of you really ought to try to get along better. We’re liable to be stuck here in each other’s company for a while, and squabbling won’t make the time pass any quicker or more pleasantly.”

  “Tell him that,” Penelope said. “I’m at least trying to help.”

  “At least until you try to kill us and escape again,” Prentice said.

  John Henry sighed, shook his head, and said, “I’m gonna go tend to the horses.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  John Henry was right about the ordeal facing them. Denton continued to rave and burn up with fever the rest of that day and on into the night. Sometime after midnight he began yelling incoherently and thrashing around. Penelope couldn’t calm him down. John Henry went into the cell and used Denton’s own belt to lash him to the bunk.

  None of them got much sleep that night.

  Marshal Ledbetter had coffee on hand and there was a pump out back, behind the jail, so John Henry was able to get a pot of coffee boiling the next morning. There was no food in the office, though.