by Sam Clancy
A shiver went down Ford’s spine, but he couldn’t be certain whether it was from the mist or something else. The words of Yellow Bull filled his head. ‘A snake in the grass is not easily seen.’ For a disused lumber mill, all of the plank-built buildings and equipment looked to be in good repair. Ford thought that the buildings should show some sign of neglect and decay. Both men stopped their horses on a large bare patch of earth outside a large shed. They sat for a short while as Ford surveyed the eerie scene. It seemed to be a ghost town. ‘If Ferguson, as you know him, keeps his ore and such here, where would he smelt the gold?’ Wyatt pondered.
‘You say that he’s the richest man in Seattle, right?’
‘That’s right,’ Wyatt confirmed.
‘Does he own any boats, ships, I mean?’
‘A couple,’ he answered. ‘They run freight for him up and down the coast. That is part of his business.’
‘So he doesn’t need to smelt it here. He could just load it onto one of his ships and take it wherever.’
‘I guess he could do that,’ Wyatt agreed.
‘Well, let’s find out what he keeps here,’ Ford said, climbing down from the roan’s back. They walked over to the door which Ford opened. The inside was dim, lit only by the light from outside which filtered through cracks in the plank walls. Ford was about to step inside when the triple-click of a gun hammer and barrel against his spine, made him freeze.
‘Get your hands up and move inside,’ Wyatt ordered. ‘And no sudden moves or I’ll put a slug in your back.’
Ford raised his hands to shoulder level and slowly walked through the open doorway. The building contained sacks of ore from the mine in the Bitterroots. Once far enough inside Wyatt snapped, ‘That’ll do. Now, turn around.’
Ford turned to face the traitor. Wyatt licked his lips nervously and his gun hand trembled slightly.
‘Unbuckle the gun belt and let it drop.’
Ford did as he was ordered.
‘Now step back.’
With Ford disarmed and away from him, tension in the deputy marshal eased slightly.
‘I guess Yellow Bull was right,’ Ford muttered.
‘What did you say?’ said Wyatt.
‘I said you’re a yellow-bellied coward.’
‘What would you know?’ Wyatt hissed. ‘If you had left well enough alone then none of this would be happenin’. I gave you the opportunity to walk away but you’re just too blamed stubborn.’
‘He must be payin’ you good,’ Ford observed. ‘Is it your job to get rid of me?’
Wyatt nodded. ‘At this point.’
‘How long you been workin’ for him?’
‘Two years. It don’t affect how I do my job, just how I do it concernin’ him.’
‘How much is he payin’ you?’ Ford asked.
‘Five thousand,’ Wyatt answered.
‘What are you goin’ to tell Bass? Once word gets back to him that I’ve been killed, he’s goin’ to have marshals crawlin’ all over Seattle,’ Ford pointed out.
‘Not if I tell him the men you were after weren’t here and you left,’ said Wyatt in dismissal of Ford’s logic. ‘They’ll just think you went missing on the ride back.’
‘Thought of everythin’, haven’t you?’
Wyatt smirked with pride. ‘Pretty much.’
‘Before you go ahead and shoot me, can I ask you one more question?’ Ford said calmly. Wyatt shrugged casually, all sign of his previous nervousness gone. ‘Sure, why not.’
‘Everythin’ you told me before, about Peacock. Is it true or was it all lies?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘It matters to me. I’m the one that’s about to die,’ Ford said. ‘You could at least tell me that much.’
Wyatt thought about the request then shrugged his shoulders. ‘What the hell. Yeah, it was mostly true. Not that it matters ’cause you’ll be dead anyhow.’ The six-gun in Wyatt’s fist came up to eye level and remained rock steady. Ford stared down the open end of the barrel silently. The brave facade fell away and he clasped his hands in front of himself and begged for Wyatt not to shoot him.
‘Please . . . please don’t shoot me,’ he stammered. ‘I don’t want to die.’ Ford sank to his knees, hands still clasped together, his eyes locked on Wyatt.
‘Get up,’ the dishonourable man snarled.
‘Please, Archie, you don’t have to do this,’ Ford whimpered and fell to all fours.
‘I said get the hell up, or I’ll shoot you there,’ Wyatt sneered. ‘All of the stories I’ve ever heard about the great Josh Ford never included him cowerin’ like a dog.’
Ford raised his head and looked up into the leering face of Wyatt. The deputy marshal exuded an arrogant confidence and sense of supremacy but he could never have foreseen what happened next. Ford scooped a handful of dirt from the floor and flung it at Wyatt’s face.
Reflexively, Wyatt shut his eyes, but some of the dirt had found its target. Blinded, he staggered slightly and his finger tightened on the trigger.
His six-gun discharged and the bullet flew over Ford’s shoulder. Wyatt brushed frantically at his eyes, trying to clear his vision. He fired again but the shot was even wilder and gouged splinters from the far wall.
Ford took advantage of the reprieve and dived forward to grab hold of the butt of the Peacemaker. He ripped it from its holster and as he brought it up, he thumbed back the hammer. Without aiming, he squeezed the trigger and the Colt thundered. The slug took Wyatt low down, about an inch above his belt buckle.
The man went up on his toes and leaned forward, the punch of the bullet felt like a sledgehammer to his middle. Wyatt cried out with despair as he realized what had happened. The wounded man righted himself and fought to bring his gun into line for another shot at Ford. The gesture was futile as Ford’s Peacemaker barked again and the bullet took him high in the chest. Wyatt dropped his gun and sank to the ground, two large wet stains on his front. He fell onto his back, gasping for air, his lungs increasingly useless as they steadily filled with blood. Ford climbed to his feet, then he moved over and knelt beside the dying man. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. ‘I . . . I was wrong . . . . about you,’ he gasped out. ‘Should . . . . should have been more careful . . . shot you when . . . when I had the chance.’
‘Too late for that now,’ Ford said coldly. Wyatt’s low chuckle became a gurgle and he coughed violently to clear his throat. ‘Where are they, Wyatt?’ Ford asked him. ‘Before you cross over, tell me where they are.’ Wyatt went glassy eyed and Ford thought that he’d passed out. He grabbed the man’s face and shook him roughly to bring him back.
‘Come on, Wyatt, talk to me,’ Ford urged. ‘Where are they?’
‘House . . . house on the . . . hill,’ Wyatt forced out. ‘Or the Gold Club.’
‘Who runs this end when he’s away?’ Wyatt remained silent. Ford shook him. ‘Who, damn it? Tell me.’
‘Two . . . two men,’ Wyatt said weakly. ‘Morris and Walsh. Then there’s the . . . the bookkeeper.’
‘What bookkeeper?’ Ford asked. Wyatt mumbled something incoherent. ‘Come on, you son of a bitch, don’t you die on me now,’ Ford cursed. ‘What bookkeeper?’
‘Finch,’ he whispered. ‘Tobias Finch.’
‘What does he do, Wyatt?’ No answer. ‘Wyatt?’ But it was no use. Wyatt’s eyes had glazed over and his ragged breathing had finally stopped. ‘Damn it,’ Ford said through clenched teeth. He reached across and tore the deputy marshal’s badge from Wyatt’s shirt and stuffed it in his own pocket. Instead of just two men, there were five to deal with. Things kept getting better and better. His challenge seemed like an overwhelmingly steep mountain, and Ferguson/Peacock was at the top, untouchable and out of reach. Ford was determined to climb that mountain and knew the only way to do that was start at the bottom.
Chapter 20
In all of his travels, Ford had never seen anything like the Gold Club. It was a three-storey brick construc
tion with rows of windows on each floor.
A large hand-painted sign in gold lettering hung above a grand entrance. By the sight of the men entering and exiting the club, Ford knew that he was severely underdressed and would stand out like a sore thumb. Thank God he had a badge.
Ford climbed the steps to the twin glass doors where his progress was blocked by a man in a black top hat and tails.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked Ford with a condescending look and tone.
His mind flashed back to the hotel in Helena. He sure as hell wasn’t going to put up with that again.
Ford showed the man his badge.
The doorman gave him a blank stare and said, ‘Yes, sir?’
Ford dropped his hand to his six-gun and stated angrily, ‘Mister, if my badge ain’t enough to get me through them damn doors, then I got me a Peacemaker that says otherwise. Now, it’s your choice what you do next.’
The doorman thought for a moment then stepped to one side. With a blank expression and a calm voice, he replied, ‘Yes, sir,’ then held the door open for the marshal.
Ford entered into a large foyer with plush carpets, polished timber wall panels and a giant staircase that led to the first floor. To the right stood a long, hardwood counter with a gleaming top. Another man dressed the same as the doorman, stood to attention behind the desk. To the left stood a tall, solidly built man who Ford guessed was stationed there in case of trouble.
Ford walked over to the counter and the clerk asked, ‘May I help you, sir?’
‘I’m lookin’ for a feller named Peacock. Is he here?’
The man eyed him warily before he answered. ‘Yes, sir. Mr Peacock is in the lounge.’
‘Which is where?’ Ford said.
The man pointed towards a doorway to his left. ‘Through there, sir.’
As Ford approached the doorway, it opened and a middle-aged man exited with a woman draped on his arm. She was scantily clad in bright red underwear, matching corset and a smile. The man whispered something to her which solicited a bubbly laugh.
They crossed to the stairs and hurriedly climbed them. Ford watched until they disappeared then looked at the desk clerk.
‘Sporting woman, sir,’ he said in way of explanation.
The deputy marshal turned his back and headed for the door.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the clerk called after him, signalling the security man. ‘You can’t go in there.’
The big guard moved to block Ford’s path. This was starting to get tiresome. He sighed.
‘Are you goin’ to move?’ Ford asked him.
‘No, sir.’
Ford nodded. ‘OK then.’
The Peacemaker came clear of leather in a blur of movement and crashed against the big man’s head with a sickening crunch. He dropped to the floor and remained still, a trickle of blood ran from the cut in his scalp.
Ford turned to the clerk. ‘I’m goin’ to shoot the next person to get in my way and tries to stop me.’
‘You can’t do that, sir,’ the man blustered. ‘If you do not leave immediately, I shall have to inform law enforcement.’
‘I am law enforcement,’ Ford called back over his shoulder as he walked through the doorway.
The inside of the lounge was similar to the foyer, except there was more of it. As he cast his gaze about, he saw at least ten more ladies working a room of maybe forty men.
Leather chairs were scattered throughout the room. Wall lamps cast a muted light but the dark décor made it seem insufficient. Cigar smoke hung heavily in the air and the occasional soft clink of decanter on glass filtered through the voices. In addition to the working girls, a number of waiters with trays kept up a constant circulation of service to their guests. One of the waiters approached Ford. ‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked politely.
‘Emerson Peacock?’ Ford asked. Without hesitation, he said, ‘Follow me, sir.’
Ford trailed the man between chairs and patrons until he drew up short of a group of three men gathered around a small table that held half-filled glasses.
‘Here you are, sir,’ the waiter gestured to the table. ‘Mr Peacock is seated with those gentlemen there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ford.
‘Would you like a drink, sir?’ Ford shook his head. ‘I won’t be here that long.’
‘Very well,’ the waiter said and left Ford standing there.
He became aware of everyone in the room, especially those who cast gazes in his direction. Ferguson, as he knew him, had his back to Ford, but the other two were faced in his general direction. One of them looked up and frowned. He was a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a bushy moustache, waxed and curled at the ends. ‘Is there something you want?’ he asked abruptly, giving Ford a derisive look. Ford closed on the group and dug into his pocket to retrieve Wyatt’s badge. He tossed it on the table where it landed with a rattle.’Damn it, Wyatt. . . .’ Ferguson started and turned in his seat. The man’s eyes bulged when they focused, not on Wyatt, but Josh Ford. He attempted to regain his composure but he was visibly shaken, face pale.
‘Wyatt’s dead,’ Ford informed him. ‘But before he died, he told me a mighty interestin’ story. About you, and Morris, and Walsh.’ Ford kept an eye on the other two men and was rewarded with a faint reaction at the mention of their names.
‘What do you want?’ Ferguson croaked.
‘Wyatt said you were untouchable. Well, I’m here to tell you you’re not and I aim to prove it,’ Ford warned him.
‘Just how to you intend to do that?’ Ferguson asked.
‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ Ford said, then looked at the others before adding, ‘all of you.’
‘Don’t mess with me, Ford,’ Ferguson hissed. ‘Like Wyatt said, you can’t touch me. And know this, you may have escaped once before, but I warn you, if you mess with me, I will kill you myself.’
‘Wow,’ Ford’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Threatening a federal peace officer. I’ll just add that to the list of charges when I arrest you. By the way, where’s your lap dog, Hayes? I thought he might have been with Gibson when I caught up with him. He’s dead by the way.’
‘Get out!’ Ferguson shouted. ‘Before I have you removed!’
Every head in the room turned in their direction and Ford smiled at them.
‘Sorry about the outburst, gents, it seems Lord Ferguson has had some rather bad news.’
They all stared at him blankly.
‘Sorry, I forgot,’ Ford apologized. ‘You know him as Emerson Peacock.’
Still there was silence. The deputy marshal turned back to Ferguson whose face had turned scarlet.
‘Tell me somethin’. How does a lowly seaman who deserts his ship get to be a Lord anyway?’ Ford said.
Ferguson’s eyes flickered.
Ford smiled coldly. ‘Do you want to know what gave you away? I’ll tell you. The cat. When you had me flogged, you called it kissin’ the Captain’s Daughter. That’s how I knew. After a while, I pieced it together. And I bet you’ve got scars on your back, too.’
Another flicker of eyes.
‘Yeah,’ Ford said. ‘I thought so.’
Without another word, Ford walked towards the door. As he reached it he turned and addressed the room once more. ‘By the way. You might want to ask him how he came by most of his money. His illegal activities may surprise you.’
Then Ford was gone.
‘What are we going to do about him?’ Morris whispered harshly.
‘Kill him, you fool,’ Ferguson hissed back. ‘What else?’
‘You’ve tried that already and look how it turned out,’ Morris pointed out.
‘It will have to be soon,’ Walsh stated. ‘Or this will get too far out of hand. This was never meant to come back on us. You said it was too far away.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Besides, he can’t touch us,’ Ferguson assured them.
‘You’d better hope so,’ Walsh insisted. ‘Or we’ll all find o
urselves at the end of a rope.’
‘And you’d better watch your bloody tongue or you’ll end up in the same hole in the ground as him,’ Ferguson advised him.
Chapter 21
‘You can’t touch me.’ The words rang in Ford’s ears as he stood outside the club and tried to figure out his next move.
After considerable contemplation, he knew that Ferguson was right, and the thought irked him.
If he arrested the son of a bitch for everything he’d done, there was a still a good chance that he would walk free.
He thought about the lives that Ferguson had ruined. About Brady and old man Ellis and the others who’d died making these men rich. When he thought of the women who’d been used by the guards, he knew that Ferguson was responsible for that, too.
Ford looked down at the badge pinned to his chest. It weighed heavily on him at that moment and he knew what he had to do.
He removed the badge and placed it in his pocket. His next moves were better performed without it.
Ford waited and watched from the shadows. Light shone dimly through the windows of the two-storey house on the hill. It was surrounded on three sides by large trees while at the front it was clear, providing an unimpeded outlook across Seattle to the docks and beyond.
A fresh ocean scent was carried gently on the chill night breeze.
Ford was certain that there were four people, all men, on the premises. Two were outside, the others indoors. He guessed without a doubt that the two inside were Ferguson and Hayes.
He knew that his imminent actions were, in the eyes of the law, wrong. The knowledge did not deter him from his plans. He needed to proceed to gain justice for the innocents that Ferguson had imprisoned and killed.
High up in the starry sky, a cloud scudded across the moon. The landscape was enveloped briefly in darkness before the dull silvery glow returned after the cloud passed.
Ford reached down to his belt and drew the wickedly sharp knife that Yellow Bull had given him. He’d left his rifle in the saddle scabbard on the roan but still had his Peacemaker.