by Bill Brooks
First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2015 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency
Copyright © 2012 by Bill Brooks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].
Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Brian Peterson
Print ISBN: 978-1-63220-265-9
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-913-9
Printed in United States of America
Chapter One
Two things happened the day John Henry Cole rode into Cheyenne with Frank Straw draped across the back of a stolen roan horse: it rained so hard it crushed men’s hats, and Billy Cook, the only other detective besides him working for Ike Kelly’s Detective Agency, was shot and killed while taking a bubble bath with a married woman. Ike was waiting for him in front of Shorty’s Diner, a false-fronted restaurant squeezed between the White Elephant Saloon and Jacob’s Hardware Store. It was a clapboard, unpainted establishment with a plate-glass window and red-and-white-checked curtains. The food at Shorty’s was bad, the coffee worse, but Ike Kelly routinely took his meals there. Shorty Blaine was a busted-down cowboy who couldn’t cook an egg with the directions written on it, but he had once pulled Ike’s carcass out of the Canadian River while on a trail drive and had kept him from drowning. The truth was, Ike couldn’t swim any better than Shorty could cook, but Ike figured the least he owed Shorty was his patronage. Ike was a man who believed in loyalty and friendship.
Cole reined in. Water spilled off him and Frank like they were ducks. Ike looked at Frank and said: “I see you got your man.”
“What is left of him, anyway,” Cole said, feeling the water sluice down the back of his neck. He stepped in under the overhang of the diner. His boots sloshed and the slicker he was wearing seemed alive with yellow light.
“I was hoping you could have brought him in alive,” Ike said. Ike Kelly was as tough a man as Cole had ever met. He had killed his share of blood-letters in twenty years of pursuing the law but possessed the disposition of a Quaker when it came to violence.
“Well, I was hoping I could’ve, too,” Cole said.
“You had to plug him?”
“No, sir. He plugged himself,” Cole said. He swept his hat off and slapped it against his leg, trying to knock out as much of the weather as he could. He noticed some faces peering out of the diner window at what he had brought back to their town.
Ike’s shaggy brows wormed together and he sucked something out of a tooth, no doubt a piece of Shorty’s whang-leather bacon, and laid his disappointed gaze on Cole. His eyes were the color of sea water, a warm wet green that the light seemed to float in. “He plugged himself?” Ike shifted his attention to Frank, who was draped like a rug over the blaze-faced roan. It seemed somehow proper that Frank was still on the same roan he had stolen from Ira Priest before he left town. The roan had Ira’s initials welted on its shoulder. Its hide was dark and slick from the rain. “Why’s he wearing that dress?” Ike wondered. “I thought when I first seen you, you’d killed a woman and brought her back here for me to see.”
“Well, that is what he was wearing when I caught up with him,” Cole told Ike. He could understand his curiosity about Frank’s unusual appearance.
“You want to tell me about it?” Ike’s mouth was still working at whatever had stuck in his tooth. He was a clean-shaven man except for long sandy mustaches. His cheeks and neck had the red rawness of a man who had spent his life facing into the sun and wind. Tiny spokes creased outward from the corners of his eyes. Such a look was common in men who had spent a lifetime squinting into the ceaseless sun and the great distances, scouting for danger. Certain things—like a Cheyenne war party, or a tornado, or a fire sweeping across the prairie—were things a man hoped he wouldn’t see but all too often did.
“I caught up with him in Julesburg,” Cole said, watching the rain water drip from his slicker and collect into puddles around his boots. “He was staying with a woman named Big Tooth Ginny. You know Frank couldn’t go ten feet without finding himself a consort. The first place I looked was in the sporting houses. It didn’t take long to learn that Frank was in town. Not many men are as handsome as Frank was. I guess it was the one time that being so handsome did not have its reward.”
Ike stood staring at what remained of the notorious “Gentleman Bandit”—a sobriquet given Frank by the dime novelist, Ned Buntline. Frank didn’t look like much of a gentleman, or a bandit, dressed in a gingham dress with a sprinkle of lace tatted across the bodice and around the cuffs. Ike noticed the round, puckered spot just in front of Frank’s right ear, crusted with the color of rust.
The rain percolated in the muddy street and slanted off the edges of the overhangs and danced atop the tin roofs. It sounded like shucked corn hitting the bottom of a wash basin. “I guess one way or the other, Frank was bound for a bad end,” Cole said. “After all, I wasn’t the only one looking for him. I heard that there was a Pinkerton man from Denver on his trail, also one or two bounty hunters. I heard that King Fisher and Kip Caine were on his trail, too.”
Cole saw Ike’s eyes narrow at the mention of the Pinkerton man. Ike had once worked for that agency; now they were competition. He wiped a finger across his sandy mustaches and said: “I am not surprised about Caine or Fisher. They would’ve made good detectives if it wasn’t they enjoyed the violent aspects of the work so much.” Both men had reputations as man-killers of the first order.
“Anyway, I found Big Tooth Ginny plying her trade with a broken-nosed miner in a crib on Stillborn Alley. You know how Frank appreciated a woman that could and would work to support him. Women just fell all over themselves to please Frank. Big Tooth was no exception. The miner wasn’t happy about my unexpected appearance, and neither was Big Tooth. The miner was still wearing all his clothes because of how cold it gets up there in that high country. But it didn’t keep him from his business with Big Tooth.”
Ike Kelly pulled his makings out of his shirt pocket with the weariness of a man who had done it a thousand times before and rolled a cigarette, and then offered the makings over to Cole. “So Big Tooth Ginny gave up Frank just like that?” he said through a cloud of blue smoke.
“Not exactly,” Cole said.
Ike squinted at him.
Cole was about to go on when three hard shots shattered the peace. He saw Ike stiffen with the instinct of a man who had heard the sound of gunfire plenty of times in his past.
“It sounds like they came from the Inter-Ocean,” Ike said, turning in that direction. Cole hurried alongside him as doors popped open in spite of the hard weather, and the idle and curious fell in behind them.
Cole saw City Marshal Leo Foxx come out of the Blue Star Saloon across the street, where he spent the bulk of his time dealing faro. He wore a plug hat, a brocade vest over a freshly boiled shirt without the paper collar, and a fancy little Policeman’s Model Colt stuck inside his waistband. Foxx acted reluctant to cross to the
other side of the street. He was no doubt contemplating whether to muddy his shoes and the cuffs of his checked trousers. Leo Foxx was a fastidious man like most of his breed—gamblers hired on as the local law. They wouldn’t ride out on a posse until they made sure their hair was combed and neatly parted and smelled of rosewater.
“What is it? What’s happening over there?” Foxx bellowed.
“Shots!” someone hooted.
Then one of his cronies came up and handed Foxx an umbrella. He popped it open, then crossed the street, carrying it high over his head, tiptoeing like a debutante going to a quadrille. Cole heard Ike grumble under his breath at the appearance of the lawman. They had kept up a running dislike for each other ever since Ike established his detective agency in Leo Foxx’s town.
“Don’t need more law around here,” Foxx had openly complained as he watched the words Ike Kelly’s Detective Agency being painted in gold leaf on the small plate-glass window of Ike’s office the day Ike went into business. Ike had ignored Foxx’s derision, just as he would any man he lacked respect for.
“Fancy name for an old broken-down drover . . . detective,” the lawman had derided Ike in the presence of several cronies.
Then with the casual air of a man who had seen too much and done too much, Ike Kelly had said: “I knew you when Harry Longbaugh put a pistol in your ear in a Denver whorehouse and told you to fight or run and you wilted like a rose in winter. Don’t trouble me with your nonsense, Foxx . . . you ain’t up to a real fight.”
There had been bad air between them ever since. Now Foxx tried crowding in the same front door of the Inter-Ocean along with the rest. He smelled like bay rum and sweat. Frank Finn, the desk man, was cowering at the foot of the stairs.
“Mick Bledso . . . went upstairs . . . with a gun in each hand . . . and I guess he has shot Billy Cook and . . . maybe Missus Bledso as well,” Finn stammered. A woman was screaming. Several men had come from the bar and stood holding their drinks and long cigars. One man had a napkin tucked down inside his shirt and a drumstick in his right hand.
Ike’s jaw knotted and he took the stairs two at a time with Cole on his heels and Leo Foxx somewhere in the rear. A gauze of blue smoke hung in the hallway outside an open door.
Foxx shouted—“This is my jurisdiction!”—but Ike ignored him and stepped into the room with Cole alongside.
Billy Cook was resting in a copper tub of warm water that was turning pale crimson from the ribbons of blood leaking from three dark holes in his chest. His head lay slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest. A cigar floated in the water. A whiskey bottle lay next to the tub, its contents staining the carpet. Mick Bledso was a wealthy cattleman who owned practically everything a mile out in any direction of Cheyenne. He was considered important, a man to be reckoned with. Now he sat on a red velvet settee, insignificant, a smoking pistol in each hand. The smell of nitrate and sulphur filled the room.
Bledso was a man of bulk; he had a head the size of a bull, and close-set eyes. The pistols seemed small in his large hands. He didn’t look half so important sitting there like that. Bledso’s wife, whose first name was Anita, was too hysterical even to cover herself. She was naked but some of her beauty seemed faded, standing there, hysterical and exposed. She was a tall, slender woman with milk-white skin and bunches of autumn red hair that hung loosely and unpinned down past her soft white shoulders. She had high cheek bones and a long curved neck and dimples. She had pretty eyes as well, even though they were smudged by her tears. It was common knowledge that Mick Bledso had met Anita at a local bagnio called Madam Lou’s, and had taken to her like a horse to oats. Anita had what few of her sisters of the working class had—stunning good looks and the keen ability to make any man feel special. She also had a plan to marry the first rich man that came her way. That had been Mick Bledso, a successful man, it seemed, with everything but women. The wedding had been written up in the Wyoming Weekly Leader and was the biggest event to take place in the territory that year. Cole hadn’t gone, but he’d heard later that Mick had ordered in several hundred pounds of fresh oysters and fifty cases of champagne, among other delicacies. It was said that if Mick hadn’t been so eager to get started on his honeymoon, the party might still be going on.
Ike pulled a spread off the bed and wrapped it around Mrs. Bledso and set her in a chair by the doorway with her back toward the tub full of bloody water and Billy. “What happened here?” Ike asked her. His voice was a gentleman’s drawl of smooth calmness but one that commanded attention. She dabbed at her eyes, her perfectly curved lips quivering as she tried to regain herself.
Leo Foxx busied himself by wiping the mud off his shoes with one of the hotel’s towels.
“We was just . . .” Then she looked over toward her husband and broke into sobs. Mick Bledso looked as stunned as if he had been kicked by a horse. A spot just below his left eye twitched. “Me and Billy . . .” she began again. “We was just . . .”
“I reckon it’s plain what you and Billy were doing,” Ike said, without the slightest hint of accusation; it would have served no purpose. Ike turned again to look at Billy’s corpse and Cole could tell he was disappointed in equal measures at Billy’s poor judgment and the fact he was dead. “Well, Foxx, I guess this is your business now,” Ike said. “All that can be done has been done.” Then he looked at Mick Bledso, whose nearly crossed eyes were looking at something that none of the others could see. “I am sorry that Billy was involved in this, Bledso. But I’ve never known a good reason to shoot an unarmed man. The least you should have done was let him get to his gun.”
Bledso bobbed his head.
“Of course, Billy would’ve killed you in a fair fight . . . he was one hell of a gun artist. I guess you didn’t know what to do, huh?”
When Mick Bledso didn’t answer him, Ike concluded by telling Mick he ought to keep his wife at home or put her on the next stage to Denver, whichever was easier.
Cole followed Ike out of the room and down the carpeted stairway. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Cole saw a row of porcelain cuspidors lined along the ornate oak bar. Behind the bar there was a long mirror etched with frosted cherubs. The waiters all wore white shirts and the bartenders cravats.
“This is some bon ton place,” Cole said.
“I reckon if Billy could tell us,” said Ike, “he’d have wanted to end it in a place like this. He always was a man who liked to live beyond his means. Now he has died beyond them as well.”
They walked back down the street to Ike’s office. The rain had slackened to drizzle and the wind had shifted east to west and carried with it a sharp chill. Cole was still wet from his ride and was eager to get into some dry clothing. By the time they reached the front of the diner again, a group of callow youths stood in a circle around Frank Straw and the stolen roan. Their eyes were big, and some of them were laughing. Ike paid one of them—a tall, lanky boy with splayed teeth—50¢ to take Frank over to Klingbill’s Funeral Parlor and the horse over to the livery. The two men watched as they marched off in a parade, Frank draped over the back of the roan, his skirts blowing in the wind.
They stepped into Ike’s office, a small, spare space containing a scarred desk; a swivel chair that, every time Ike sat in it, screeched like cats being kicked; a rack of shotguns and rifles on the wall; the mounted head of a mule deer Ike had shot on an expedition he had helped guide for Bill Cody and the Grand Duke of Prussia; a wash basin on a commode, and a blue china water pitcher with two glasses. The only other item in the room was a Shaker chair hanging on a peg. Cole took it down and sat on it. Ike sat in his swivel chair.
“Need to oil this thing someday,” Ike said. He said it every time he sat in it.
Chapter Two
A letter lay spread out upon Ike’s desk. He motioned to it.
“What is it?” Cole asked.
“The rest of the bad news,” he said. “I got it just before the shooting at the Inter-Ocean. It’s from a woman I once knew. Go ahead, re
ad it.”
“Looks personal,” Cole said, before reaching for it.
“No, it’s just more trouble,” Ike said.
Cole looked at the name on the return address on the envelope before reading the letter. It was from a woman named Lydia Winslow, although at the bottom of the letter she’d signed it Liddy.
Dear Ike,
I can’t explain to you how wonderful it was to hear of you residing in Cheyenne. And to receive the news at such a fortuitous time! Dodge seems so long ago.
I hope this letter finds you well & in good spirits. Now for the tragic news I bear you in this letter.
You see, this past summer, I, and a few young women who work for me, arrived in Deadwood. A business venture, but not entirely what you may think. I won’t go into details so much at this time. But if you decide to accept my invitation, offer really, to come to my aid, then I will tell you everything.
I will take the chance that we meant something special to each other once. Enough so that you will hear me out, read this to its conclusion before making up your mind as to whether you are willing to risk your life for me. I won’t blame you if you refuse.
I won’t belabor this longer. Three of my young women have been murdered since our arrival. At first, it was believed the deaths of two of the girls was accidental. But when the third girl (her name was Flora) was found last week—it was unmistakably murder. Without a great deal of proof at my disposal, I am now of the belief that the other two girls were also murdered and made to look like accidents.
I know that it must seem insensitive of me to come to you with my problems after all this time of separation. But when I found you again, I had to take the chance you would hear me out.
However, I’ve taken the precaution to advertise for someone of experience in this line with the territorial newspapers on the chance that you might not be able to help me.
I hope this letter finds you well and I hope that I hear from you, even if you choose not to come. I understand. Take care, dear Ike. You will always have a place in my heart.