Blood of the Hunters

by Jeff Rovin

  Ordinarily, the vision would have made him smile.

  This day, it made him uneasy, afraid of the unwelcomed dark. He had come up here to be alone. Now there would always be the ghost of a mysterious man named Keeler haunting his ledge and his cave and his soul. . . .

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was a bad day and night for Molly Henshaw.

  When her employer, Raspy Nikolaev, informed her that her boyfriend, Promise Cuthbert, was gunning for her hero, Dr. John Stockbridge, her first thought was to ride out, find Stockbridge, and warn the man who had made such a strong impression on her in Gunnison. Over her many years of engaging with the public, Molly had acquired a strong first sense about the bad ones and the good ones. Cuthbert was somewhere in between, leaning toward bad, though not enough so that she hated being with him. But Stockbridge—

  He’s better than good, she thought as she ran from the Pap, uncertain where she was going other than to get away. In their brief, brief encounter, Dr. Stockbridge had not permitted his profound personal misfortune to touch her. He had been like a knight. Promise Cuthbert? He was a coyote whose only asset was that he wasn’t as bad as all the other barking, pawing, ravenous coyotes.

  You did not cross a man like Promise Cuthbert. But at peril of your heart and soul, you did not betray such a man as John Stockbridge or allow him to be betrayed.

  So she ran out after finishing with Spaulding Doubleday and turned north, toward the plain and the small church with its steeple, which was dirty on one side, the side that was exposed to the buffeting western winds. The priest, Reverend Michaels, did not intrude on her devotions. If the solace of the place was all a parishioner needed, the pastor was happily content with that.

  It was not prayer, though, that had guided Molly’s feet and folded her hands in prayer. It was sanctuary. It was fear. It was dread of what Promise Cuthbert would do if he learned what was in her heart.

  She had not been there more than a few minutes, on her knees in a pew, when the door opened, flushing the somber darkness with light before closing again with a slam. She recognized the beat on the wooden floor, Cuthbert’s heavy stride caused by the ramrod posture. She could picture, could almost hear the to-and-fro swing of his shoulders.

  He sidled into the row behind her and sat heavily. She heard his breath, fast and angry. When she did not turn, he leaned forward. She felt his stubble brush her jaw, felt the heat of his mouth near her right ear.

  “I hear you’re mourning Grady Foxborough.”

  She did not respond.

  “You barely knew him, Molly. Why are you here instead of washing my back?”

  She did not want to answer him but nonetheless fell into the same, rutted pattern that had helped her to survive for so many years, in town after town, in this lopsided world of men.

  She lied. She said what she thought would appease him.

  “I am . . . I’m praying for you, Promise.”

  “For me? Why? What do you think is going to happen to me?”

  “You will seek the man who killed Grady.”

  “Ambushed.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Grady was shot from below while he was facing another way.”

  “What—what was Grady doing?”

  “Hunting.”

  “Hunting who?”

  Molly did not regret saying it, even when Cuthbert leaned over the pew and glared at her sideways.

  “You forget yourself, girl.”

  “Do I? And you forget where we are.”

  Cuthbert regarded her curiously, then said with disapproval, “You’re suddenly bold.”

  “Am I?”

  “And toying with me. Why?”

  “Maybe I just wanted some time alone.”

  “To pray for Grady. And me.”

  “That’s right.”

  Cuthbert changed suddenly, as was his tendency. He kissed her earlobe. “Come back to the hotel with me. Let me remind you what kind of man Promise Cuthbert is so you won’t be afraid for his safety.”

  “I need to finish praying.”

  “No, Molly. What you have to do is get off your well-worn knees and come with me.”

  Molly did not move. Now she would not move. She could not be in the arms of this man ever again; she knew that now.

  When the woman did not rise as ordered, Cuthbert grabbed her right arm, rose, and started pulling her with him.

  “Leave her be!”

  The voice echoed through the small, dark church. It did not cause Cuthbert to release the woman, but he did stand very still.

  “Who’s there?” the captain demanded.

  “God’s servant.”

  Though the old, diminutive, white-haired Reverend Michaels was only ten feet away, behind the pulpit, he was barely visible in the shadows.

  The former Confederate captain snorted. “You were addressing me, Padre?”

  “None other.”

  “How about, instead, you mind your own business and God’s business and leave me and the lady alone!”

  “Within these walls, you do not give instructions.”

  “Well, forgive the hell outta me,” Cuthbert said. “But I’m taking her out, and you’re not stopping me.”

  The pastor stepped from behind the pulpit and walked toward them. Cuthbert gave Molly’s arm a tug. She refused to move. He tried again, and she grunted her resistance.

  The much smaller reverend, dressed in a black cassock, stepped up to the pew. “You will release the lady, or you will be forced to strike me down.”

  “You think I won’t?” Cuthbert snickered. “Padre, your rank means nothing to me!”

  “You may be cavalier about the house of God, but there are many in this village, in this region, who are not. They may overlook a brute who manhandles women, but they will not think kindly of one who would strike the clergy.”

  Cuthbert released Molly and moved into the aisle, stopping with his face inches from that of the preacher. Reverend Michaels did not flinch or lose his serene but firm disposition.

  “You are pushing the wrong man,” the former soldier said.

  “You are the one doing the pulling and pushing. I am merely standing with a member of the family of Jesus Christ.”

  Cuthbert sneered and waved dismissively at the man. “You’re an empty frock,” he snarled, and then looked hotly at Molly. “I am going to take my own bath. I will deal with you later.”

  With that, the Confederate stalked away, kicking the next pew and causing it to scrape against the floor as he left the row. When the man was gone, Molly erupted in tears and sat heavily, her pale face in her hands, her blond curls falling over her sleeves.

  Reverend Michaels sat beside her.

  “Thank you,” she said into her hands. “Thank you.”

  “Thank God,” he replied.

  She lifted her tear-filled eyes to the modest wooden cross that hung on the front wall. Her lips moved in grateful silence.

  “If you need to continue your prayer, I will go. If you need to talk, I am here. And if you need to leave without being seen, there is a back door.”

  Molly was so surprised by the pastor’s understanding that she threw herself against him and wept into his shoulder and accepted the light, comforting touch of his hands upon her shoulders.

  She was also pleased with the courage she had shown Promise Cuthbert. Molly was certain she would need more of that before this business was through.

  * * *

  * * *

  A quarter hour later, watching through the stained glass window in the front of the church, Molly saw the curtains draw shut in the bathroom. With a gift of bread and cheese tied in a white cloth, and a skin filled with water the priest personally drew from the well, she hurried across the street to the stable to get her horse.

  Under
cover of the falling twilight, she slipped from Buzzard Gulch and turned her horse west. That was where the homesteaders all lived and where she was likely to find Dr. Stockbridge.

  Unfortunately, what she found was Promise Cuthbert. The man had lured her out by telling Raspy Nikolaev to prepare the bathroom for him alone. Then he had gotten his horse and waited behind Tom Neal’s jail, where he had a view of the front and the back of the church. When she left, he galloped ahead. There was nothing but Gunnison more than a day’s ride to the east. She would not be going there, dressed as she was.

  As soon as she neared the sheriff’s office, the last building in town, Cuthbert trotted forward. She stopped, and the two stood with their horses facing on the cold, windy plain. She was cold, despite the seasonal shawl she had pulled on. He looked ominous in his dark, granite posture against the sinking sun.

  “Where you going, Molly?”

  “For a ride.”

  “This hour? Dressed like that, with no coat?”

  “I know how to make a fire, and Reverend Michaels gave me food—I just want to be alone for a while.”

  “Where? On the plains?”

  “That’s right. To clear my thoughts.”

  He laughed. “Girl, you must think me the biggest jackass this side of the Mississippi. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I want you to go to the hotel with me.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “That was not me requesting. I’m telling you. There’s something not right, and I want to find out what it is.”

  While Molly was frozen, considering what other options there might be, Cuthbert rode forward a few paces and grabbed the bridle of her horse. Being bold was one thing; being reckless was something else altogether. There was no choice then, as she had already come to realize.

  The two returned to the hotel and went upstairs. Nikolaev was surprised and saddened to see Molly. She gave him a look that said she was all right, for now. Cuthbert took his bath and Molly soaped and scrubbed him—considering and dismissing the idea of running when he was naked and in the water. For the safety of Molly and Yi, there was no lock on the door. But Cuthbert put his six-shooter on the floor beside the big tin tub. Given the man’s threadbare patience with her, Molly did not want to risk angering him further.

  Not before she had a plan for getting away.

  Until the confrontation in the church, Molly had not thought about doing anything other than somehow getting word to Dr. Stockbridge that there were men searching for him. She did not for a moment believe the doctor had “ambushed” Grady Foxborough. Cuthbert and his men were not cowards, but they did not play fair either. Now, partly from a young woman’s infatuation and from fearing for her safety, she wanted to do more. Short of provoking Cuthbert to a rage and shooting him with his own handgun, she wanted to help Dr. Stockbridge in any way possible.

  And in so doing, help herself. She could no longer be beholden to this man.

  The opportunity to escape presented itself when Cuthbert finished bathing and called Yi to fetch a bottle of whiskey. He was not about to send Molly on the mission and have her run off again.

  Some men, especially those who intended to take advantage of being alone with a woman, would enter this room and idly look into drawers and under washcloths for weapons. Nikolaev expected his woman to endure liberties—to a point. At the same time, he did not want his clients shot nor stabbed. However, since some men wanted a shave, he agreed with Molly and Doris that a straight-edge razor could be left on the nearby wooden washing stand, sitting innocuously among the soap powder, mug, and brush . . . hidden under a folded towel.

  Molly intended to use that razor, if necessary. However, unknown to the woman, Cuthbert had confiscated it—innocently enough, his back to Molly as he removed his boot and tucked the straight-edge razor deep inside when he arrived, stuffing his socks on top of it.

  Molly had noticed the blade missing as the man stepped into the tub. When she called to Yi for a bottle of whiskey, she asked for one from Nikolaev’s special store.

  Cuthbert did not know that mentioning Nikolaev’s special store was the ladies’ signal to lace the bottle with sodium bromide. Even if Cuthbert did not fall asleep, it would make him groggy. Nikolaev could always blame the liquor. Since Molly would make sure to spill whatever was left, the Southerner would not be able to force the proprietor to drink from the bottle.

  “Feeling apologetic?” the man in the tub asked when Molly made the request.

  “I want this to be a pleasant night,” Molly replied, sounding earnest. And she was, though not for the reasons Cuthbert might have imagined.

  “I’m glad you’ve come around, Molly,” he said. “I didn’t want to hurt you back in the chapel. I’m upset over Grady, need a clear head.”

  She did not answer. Of course he wanted to hurt her. He had hurt her.

  The captain did not immediately turn to the bottle. With the neck of the bottle tight in one fist, the gun in the other—he was taken to his room by Molly.

  The bathroom was on the second of three floors. Cuthbert’s room was on the third, overlooking the street. He did not want to overlook the stable.

  “Yi got my clothes?” he asked as they left.

  “She’ll get them.”

  Yi never gave them a full washing. She would just beat the dust from them out back, on the line, then iron them. Otherwise, they would not be ready when Cuthbert wanted to go to the bar. Tonight, by mistake, they went in the wash barrel to soak.

  Molly used her passkey to open the door. Once inside, she lit the lantern on the dresser while Cuthbert went to the window and drew the curtains. The room was cold, and he pulled the bed quilt around his bare shoulders. He warmed himself further by pulling Molly to him. He held her under the quilt, his strong arms tightly wrapped around her. It was not a loving embrace. He had on a cruel expression as he looked down into her eyes, his skin a pale orange in the light.

  “You’re still not with me, Molly. You’re not looking at me. You’re hardly talking to me. Why? What aren’t you and that fat Russian telling me?”

  “I told you. It’s Grady . . . violence.”

  “You told me, yeah. Only I don’t believe you.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Captain.”

  “That’s what makes the lie stand out.” Cuthbert shifted his grip to the backs of her arms and squeezed. “You’ve been with him, haven’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “Stockbridge. He’s been here!”

  “Never! Please, Captain. Let me go!”

  “When you tell me the truth. And don’t bother calling Raspy. He comes in here, I’ll kick him out the window.”

  “Don’t!” she said. Then she suddenly stopped resisting. “All right. Let me—let me have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

  “You admit it, then? Lying?”

  She nodded.

  Cuthbert relaxed his grip. “That’s more like it. Yeah, go and have a drink. Help yourself.”

  “Do you want one, too?”

  “Not yet, sugar. I’ll wait to hear what you have to say. Then maybe we’ll have something to toast.”

  Unscrewing the cap, she put the bottle to her lips and drank deeply. Far, far deeper than usual.

  “Hold on there, girl!” Cuthbert cried. He rushed over.

  She kept drinking. If the whiskey enough wasn’t sufficient to knock her legs out, the sleeping powder was. Before a quarter of the bottle was gone, before the captain could smack it away, she had already begun to see circles swirling behind her eyes, like the colorful Mexican spinning toys she had seen one New Year’s Eve. Within a moment, she felt herself dropping.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was morning before Molly woke.

  She was in her own bed on the second floor, and there was a washcloth on her head. It was still slightly damp and quite
cold. She removed it, wincing from the effort of raising her arm.

  Someone took the cloth from her fingers.

  “Th-thanks, Yi,” Molly said, squinting up. Yi shared the bedroom with her. The only other employees who lived here, besides Doris, were Bertram the bellboy and the handyman-janitor, Iron Jaw, a former rail worker who could bend nails with his teeth.

  “You welcome. You drink on purpose, yes?”

  Molly nodded.

  Yi smiled. “Good thinking. Cuthbert not here. Hit boss.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It okay. Sheriff was at bar. Arrest Cuthbert for assaulting. Boss happy.”

  “Is the captain still in jail?”

  “Yes. Hit sheriff, too.”

  Molly’s first thought was that the bastard deserved worse. Her second thought was that she had wasted the cover of night. She had to find Dr. Stockbridge before the Red Hunters did.

  “How late is it?”

  “Eight.” Yi added proudly, “I finish laundry and breakfast dishes already. Doris take morning bath men. We help you.”

  “You’re both angels,” Molly told her. “But I have to get up. I have to go before Cuthbert is released.”

  “Boss say you been kicked by mule—need rest.”

  “What I need is to move,” Molly replied.

  Yi knew better than to argue with the woman when her mind was set. Instead, she took both of Molly’s hands and, leaning back, helped her to sit, very slowly, on the edge of the bed.

  Molly shut her eyes and sat there, wavering to and fro, fighting the quick, stabbing pain that punched her forehead from the inside out, then recoiled to the back of her skull. At the same time, her ears were throbbing sideways. She remained very still, waiting until the pain subsided before opening her eyes.

  Yi had magically transformed into Nikolaev. The big Russian was standing beside the bed, smiling down. The left side of his jaw was swollen.