Deadman's Fury (The Deadman Series Book 2)

by Linell Jeppsen

  Holding his hands in the air, Matthew yelled, “In case some of you don’t know, I am a Spokane County sheriff and these are my deputies! The men you see here in the street set an ambush for us and we dealt with them accordingly!”

  About thirty men and women dressed in assorted nightwear stared back and forth at the dead and wounded to the tin stars Matthew, Roy and Dicky held in the air. Abner tried to lift his star as well but kept falling into a woozy doze.

  Matthew spoke once more. “If you’re thinking that me and my men had anything to do with your sheriff’s death, you should know that Roy and I have been locked up in jail most of yesterday and last night. Go around back and you’ll find Davey Humphries tied up on a chair, covered with a blanket for his own safety. Ask him if what I say isn’t true.”

  Two men ran around to the back of the jailhouse while the other citizens stared at Matthew in consternation. Then Gertie’s voice rang out. “He’s right! These are good men in pursuit of the law. I, myself, sent a telegraph to the sheriff’s office in Spokane just a few hours ago, not to mention the Washington State governor!” She drew herself up to her full height and added, “They put a stop to these villains and God bless ‘em!”

  Matthew saw Davey Humphries and his two escorts walk around the side of the jailhouse. The deputy walked up to him a few seconds later. shaking his head in shock. “I can’t believe that the sheriff is dead,” he whispered. “Him and his wife both. And looks like you’ve been shot, too. Let’s get you fixed up.”

  Glancing at Roy, Matthew said, “We have to help Abner. I think his leg is busted.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get him out from under that horse and install him next to Sarah,” Roy said. “Don’t think he will mind that development.”

  Matthew wondered for a moment what Roy was talking about but then he grinned. Abner had been acting half-moonstruck the last couple of days. Maybe he was sweet on the little Indian gal.

  Now that it was determined the Spokane sheriff and his posse were not a threat, the townsfolk sprang into action. The men managed to pull Abner’s horse off his leg and carry him into a bedroom in Gertie’s house. Sure enough, according to the doc, Abner’s tibia was broken in two places and he would need a couple of weeks rest before he was able to walk.

  At the same time, the doctor’s wife took a critical look at the long, bloody welt on Matthew’s thigh. Having decided the wound was not serious, she poured straight alcohol on the graze and wrapped it up in clean bandages. Matthew sucked air and sweated, then took a long slug of whiskey. It might not be a serious wound, he thought with a grimace, but it still stings like blazes!

  Davey, Roy and Dicky dragged Donnelly’s men out of the muddy street and ensconced the wounded man in one of the vacant jail cells. Telegraphs went flying, and food was prepared and served up to the survivors. Matthew limped outside and marveled at the carnival atmosphere.

  Roy walked up to where Matthew stood and said, “What now, boss?”

  “Let’s go have a chat with the man I shot.” Matthew glared.

  “Okay,” Roy replied and the two men walked up the road and into the jailhouse.

  Davey and the doctor stood by the desk talking but, when the officers stepped in the door, they turned their way.

  The doctor said, “The man’s name is Bill Arlington. I got the bleeding to stop but that wrist is so shot up I’m going to have to amputate and, possibly, brand the wound closed. The blacksmith is building up his fire now.”

  Matthew didn’t give a hoot about the man’s hand. The way he figured it, if you ran with criminals, you’d best be prepared for the consequences. Still, he needed that man’s intelligence right now—at least for a few minutes. “Do you mind if I have a word with him? He might be able to help us with our investigation.”

  The doctor nodded. “He’s pretty doped up but do what you need to do.”

  The prisoner was lying on the cot, still as death. Matthew wondered if he had died but, when he walked up to the bars, the man turned his head and stared.

  “You shot my hand, you piece of shit!” he mumbled.

  “That’s right, Bill,” Matthew said. “My aim was off. I meant to shoot you in the heart.”

  The prisoner scowled and turned his face away but did a double take when the sheriff entered the cell. Matthew stood over him and said, “I want to know where the girls are.”

  “Screw you! I ain’t saying nuthin’!” Bill snarled.

  Matthew bent over a little and gave the man’s bloody wrist a light tap. Stepping back, he watched and listened as Arlington screamed in agony. “You are going to tell me what I want to know or you’ll be losing more than one puny hand.”

  The man shivered and tried staring in defiance. But Matthew bent over again, his index finger extended and aiming for the bloody wound.

  “Alright! Alright, sweet Jesus, don’t touch me again!” he whimpered.

  Matthew stood straight and said, “Well? Where are the girls?”

  Bill Arlington knew what would happen if he squealed…Donnelly would have his hide. Not knowing who was worse—Donnelly or this hard-faced sheriff—he said, “Fred and Dan are taking them down to the docks in Seattle. There’s a place there, a warehouse, where they fix the girls up pretty for auction.”

  “Where is it? I need an address,” Matthew snarled.

  “I don’t know…I DON’T!” Bill squealed as the sheriff made to touch his wound again. “It’s by the ferry, though…the big ferry that heads west over the sound.”

  The pain of his injury was leaching all the color out of the man’s face. Matthew heard the doctor say, “Sheriff, this is my patient and I want you to leave him alone now. He’s not out of the woods yet.”

  Matthew glared and then his shoulders slumped. What am I doing? he thought. This is not like me, at all. Still, there came a time in every man’s life—especially one like him—who waded through criminal bullshit for a living; where you just had to shake some of the stuff off your boots or you would be sucked into the muck.

  “Just one more question, Doc, and we’ll be on our way,” Matthew said. Turning to Bill, he asked, “I’ve been to the docks so I know it’s a big area. How will I recognize the place?”

  Bill’s eyes were drifting shut; whatever the doctor had administered for the pain was taking effect. Opening his lids at Matthew’s words, he thought about it for a moment and then said, “There is another building, right down the road from the warehouse. It’s a small place where they hold the auctions.”

  His eyes drifted shut again but popped open when Matthew hollered, “And?”

  “There’s a dragon. A pretty blue and green dragon painted on a sign outside the door. That’s where you’ll find the girls.”

  Chapter 19

  The Plot Thickens

  Matthew and Dicky rode their horses as hard and fast as they dared toward the shoreline of Lake Washington and the ferry steamer that would take them into the city of Seattle. The sheriff felt the clock ticking in his heart as well as the hot pulsing pain that throbbed along the top of his thigh. If his team had been able to ride unhindered after the wagonload of girls, they might have stood a chance. But one delay after another made Matthew feel they might be too late.

  After the furor had died down the night before, Matthew ordered his men to catch some sleep. Then, at 5:30 that morning, he told Roy to stand guard over Abner and Sarah while he and Dicky made their way to the auction house. Matthew would have preferred Roy’s company—he was as quick and tough as it came in a pinch. He needed that toughness, though, to handle the law enforcement officers and the political dignitaries that were sure to show up today in Gold Bar. Someone with solid experience to sort out the mess Donnelly’s men had created.

  He also trusted Roy to watch over Iris when she arrived later by train and also to see that both Abner and Sarah arrived home safely. Thinking of Iris made Matthew’s gut feel tight with longing and the need for council. One thing he had learned after marrying the widow Ime
s was that, although she had come from a long line of vaudeville actors and “showmen”, she had a level, no-nonsense approach to life and its foibles.

  Often, while dealing with some of the shadier characters in his hometown and surrounding area, Matthew had sought his wife’s advice. It was one thing to hear a woman’s complaints about her lousy, no-good, son-of-a-bitch husband but quite another to learn from Iris that the woman in question was known in ladies’ circles as a bully and an abuser.

  Sometimes, she also seemed to understand men better than Matthew did. He had been taught how to act and behave by his grandfather and his uncle Jonathon—both southern-born with a rigid set of “old-world” rules. Matthew was often blinded by his own expectations; Iris, on the other hand, was able to point out when a man’s surly attitude masked a timid and fearful heart.

  Many, many people had fled west after the Civil War and still lived in fear of aggression. It didn’t really matter by now which “side” had won that conflict as emotions ran deep and memories were long. And some newcomers to Granville were refugees of that war, viewing lawmen as no more than a different kind of soldier…hard and cruel men who were to be avoided at all cost.

  Iris had taught Matthew that many men were not as lucky as he had been and reminded him to look to his heart, rather than his moral upbringing, while dealing with the citizens of his town. How he missed her!

  Shifting uncomfortably in his saddle, Matthew glanced at his companion. He couldn’t help but shake his head in wonder. If nothing else, he mused, my instincts were right about this kid.

  Dicky was as fresh as a new blade of grass but he was proving his mettle. Interestingly enough, he also seemed to be losing his stutter although Matthew was loath to point it out lest the boy’s unruly tongue remember its old tricks. Just last night, after Dicky and a number of other men had hauled Abner to a bed in Gertie’s house, he had reportedly said, “Sorry those men killed your horse, Abner” without stuttering at all.

  Abner had stared him and said, “That’s okay, Dicky, I’m better now. Hey, what happened to your stutter?”

  Roy told Matthew that the boy blushed as red as a beet and slapped his hand over his mouth in shock. He had made no reply, but his face was wreathed in smiles this morning and he sat tall in his saddle even though the day was getting long. It seemed to Matthew that being needed and respected was all it took to loosen the knot in the boy’s throat, and he was happy for Dicky that it had finally happened.

  They had another ten miles or so to go before they hit the dock. According to the locals, depending on the weather, the steamboat made three trips back and forth across Lake Washington per day and the last trip was just before sunset. Pulling his watch out of his pocket, Matthew saw that it was almost 3:15. Touching his rowels to his horse, he said, “We’re running out of time, Dicky. We have to make that boat.”

  Glancing down at the bulge of bandages on Matthew’s thigh, Dicky asked, “How you holding up, sir?”

  Matthew said, “I’m fine, Dicky. Let’s keep going.”

  The young deputy clicked his tongue and their tired animals put on one last burst of speed. Cantering steadily through the drizzling rain, they gained a low hill and Matthew saw a vast body of water in the distance. He also saw a rickety paddleboat coming towards them about three hundred yards out from the shore. Black smoke belched from two tall stacks and a horse on deck reared and whinnied at the noise. We’re going to make it! Matthew thought.

  They crested the hill and trotted down to where the old boat was just docking at a pier. Two farm wagons, a couple of pedestrians, and an elegant buggy waited to embark. A Negro man shuffled off the vessel and went from one customer to the next collecting fares while a number of small, dark children scrambled here and there, grabbing the bridles of reluctant mounts, tossing wood into the boiler and squirting grease on the paddle assembly.

  Matthew heard the old man tell one of the walking customers, “Storm’s a blowin’ in. Y’all need to hold on tight to the rails.”

  Matthew studied the water and saw that, indeed, whitecaps were frosting the swells and wavelets were starting to reach high enough to drench the ferryboat’s wooden deck. He was used to water but Dicky was looking green around the gills. “No problem, kid. We’ll be across in no time.”

  Dicky glanced sideways at his boss and said, “If you say so, sir.”

  Grinning, Matthew said, “I do. Let’s go!”

  Handing some money to the old ferry captain, they led their mounts onto the boat. “You need ‘em stalled, Mister?” one little girl asked.

  Matthew responded, “That’s alright…these horses can cope, I think.”

  The child grinned. Her black hair was twisted into tiny spikes and her gap-toothed grin made Matthew miss his son, Chance, who had the same twinkle in his eye when he smiled. She gestured to her left and said, “You tie ‘em up on the portside rail, okay? Tie ‘em tight!”

  “Will do,” he replied and led his horse to the left.

  Dicky followed and soon they had both horses secured and hooded. A few more fares squeezed onto the boat before the paddles started spinning. Four young boys balanced precariously on the rails and stuck long wooden poles into the water. There was a slight resistance and then the boat floated free, moving into the currents.

  Matthew stood close to his horse’s head and crooned meaningless words into its ear. If he wasn’t so worried, he would have felt a certain amount of excitement. He had been to the big city of Seattle once but that was years ago. He vowed now that he would bring Iris and the kids back for a visit someday. There were fine shops, shows, plays…even an opera house.

  As the old boat did a steady clip despite the heavy current, the distance to the far shore diminished rapidly. He saw that the city was shrouded in fog, the gusty winds apparently isolated on the water.

  He decided he needed a map. Or maybe they should ditch the horses and ride a trolley to the wharf area. I could use some time off this horse’s back, he thought as an off-tune horn bleated from the prow of the ferry. Matthew stared at the fast approaching shoreline and gritted his teeth in a grim smile. If Dicky and I made it in time, the chase is on now.

  ~

  Approximately a half hour after Matthew and Dicky left the town of Gold Bar behind, George Libby’s wife Naomi scurried out of the large downstairs room where they made their home and into the telegraph booth. Her right cheek still stung from where George had struck her after she complained about his extracurricular criminal activities.

  She couldn’t understand why he felt the need to line his pockets with Donnelly’s money, especially since their hotel was making a profit now that the railroad tracks were down and the train station was just up the road. She suspected that George had borrowed more than he could repay and was forever in the man’s debt.

  Shaking her head in disgust, Naomi let the machine warm up and doodled a few lines while she waited. MEN DOWN>STOP>> SHERIFF LEFT FOR SEATTLE>STOP>>HAVE A ROTTEN DAY> STOP>> Grinning, she crossed the last few words off her message. Deciding that “Men Down” was too provocative, she wrote, LAWMEN SHOT> STOP>>

  “You sent it yet?” George was standing just outside the wire cage, glaring in at her. She jumped and said, “I’m sending it now. The machine had to warm up first.”

  “Well, hurry!” her husband snarled. “We got customers stirring and you haven’t even got the coffee started yet.” Grumbling, he stalked off as Naomi stared after him with resentment.

  Don’t suppose you could do it, she thought, and then bent to her task. It didn’t take too long to send her message but even as she tapped out the letters, her heart filled with fury at being made an accomplice to her husband’s nefarious schemes.

  George was too dumb and far too lazy to learn how to run the telegraph machine so she was the one who had sent Gertie’s messages far afield of Spokane. She had also made sure that the telegraph to the governor’s office flew to an unknown party in Portland, Oregon rather than to Elisha Ferry.

  T
here would be no investigation into what happened here last night; no King County sheriff nosing about and no help from the Spokane County sheriff’s wife, Iris Wilcox. Naomi had made certain of that and her heart broke. She had always been a good girl—a church-going girl—but George was turning her into a crook.

  She finished sending her messages to Sheriff Winslow and Patrick Donnelly, then took her scratch paper and set it alight. Letting the ashes fall into a metal tray, Naomi heard one of their patrons clattering down the stairs.

  “Oh, Mr. Partridge! I am so sorry the coffee is not on yet,” she called out. Standing up, she squeezed out of booth, locked the cage door and swept ahead of the middle-aged man into the dining area. “Please, sit down. I’ll bring you a cold glass of milk and some bread and jam. The coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Can hardly function of a morning without coffee,” she heard the bewhiskered gentleman complain. But he shut up soon enough when she brought in the promised treats.

  Heading back into the kitchen, Naomi measured coffee into the pot and set it on the stove to boil. Stepping up to the window, she peered out the right edge of the pane and saw the tips of her husband’s boots as he sat rocking on the porch.

  She took another step sideways into the pantry and pulled out one of the messages she had re-routed yesterday, the one Sheriff Wilcox had sent to his wife Iris. Looking down at the man’s hasty scrawl, she bit her lip in envy. What a handsome man he was and the way he had written, I love you and miss you more than I can convey, remember our secret vow, set her heart aflutter.

  Knowing that she was risking her husband’s wrath and possible reprisal from Donnelly, Naomi decided to re-send the telegraph to Iris Wilcox in Spokane. What could it hurt? It was just a love letter, after all, and instructions to come and fetch the little squaw. Those things surely had nothing to do with Donnelly and his ruffians.