by John Legg
Death in Helltown
by
John Legg
© Copyright 2016 John Legg
Wolfpack Publishing
48 Rock Creek Road.
Clinton, Montana 59825
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-62918-391-6
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
A Sample Chapter from Blood Trail by John Legg
About the Author
Chapter One
Harlan Bloodworth rose and slipped smoothly back out of the circle of firelight when he heard horses coming. He eased the .44 Remington out of the cross draw holster but did not cock it.
Three horsemen edged up to the small camp and stopped. “Hallo the camp,” one said.
“Howdy,” Bloodworth said from the shadows.
“Can we set by your fire and mayhap get some vittles?”
“Got none to spare.”
“Some coffee at the least?” An annoyed tone had crept into the voice.
“‘Fraid not.”
“Ain’t mighty neighborly,” the man said, voice now hard.
“Reckon not. But that’s the way things are.” He took stock of the speaker, the only one he could see somewhat clearly. He was a big man, though he was going to seed. He wore a battered, high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. A city coat stretched across wide shoulders. His face was florid and fleshy.
“Now, I suggest you boys ride on,” Bloodworth said.
“I don’t believe we will.” The two other men began easing their horses to the speaker’s left and right, putting a little distance between them.
To Bloodworth, it meant they were not just innocent travelers. He cocked the Remington.
And he suddenly pitched forward onto his face as a bullet punched into his upper back. “Damn,” he muttered as pain radiated out from the bullet wound and blood seeped through his shirt from the exit wound. He was still conscious, but barely, as men gathered around him.
“See if he’s got any money on him,” the original speaker said.
Someone rolled Bloodworth over on his back and rifled through his pockets. “Just a few greenbacks and a bit of coins.”
“Look through the rest of his things.” The man dismounted, Bloodworth could hear, and was soon pouring himself coffee. “He was right about one thing, boys—there ain’t much in the way of vittles or coffee.” He slurped some of the latter, then said, “Give over the money, Dougie.”
“C’mon, boss, I found it.” Dougie’s voice sounded injured.
“Just give it over. He got a gun?”
“A Winchester in a saddle scabbard,” another man said. “And two pistols—a real nice Remington .44 and a belly gun. Looks like a cut-down Colt. Same caliber.”
“Hand ’em over.”
From where he lay, half-conscious, Bloodworth tried to focus on the man in the firelight. It was obvious he was the leader, and Bloodworth wanted to fix the man in his mind for later—if he lived, he would find the man.
“Hell of a fine piece,” the boss man said, looking over the Remington. “This ain’t no cowpuncher’s pistol. This here belongs to a man killer.”
“You want we should go and finished him off, boss?” one asked.
“Let him lie there and bleed to death. Ain’t worth wastin’ another bullet on him when the first one’ll do. And if not, the coyotes or wolves’ll get him. Saddle up his horse and let’s get goin’. We can be in Dodge before long.”
** ** ** **
Bloodworth woke, or at least he thought he did. He wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem at all real to him that a woman would be bending over him, speaking to him. He could not quite understand what she was saying. Then a man loomed into view, and the woman spoke to him. The next thing Bloodworth knew, he was being lifted by the man and was placed in the back of a small carriage. Then the blackness came over him again.
** ** ** ** **
Bloodworth swam up from unconsciousness slowly, but eventually became aware that he was in a soft bed in a comfortable room. He rotated his head gingerly. To his left was an overstuffed chair and behind it, on the wall covered with flocked wallpaper was a picture of a grassy meadow and a bright blue lake. Left of the picture was a door, closed now. Straight ahead of him was a bureau and next to it his pants hung on a hook. His boots were on the floor beneath them. To his right was a window framed by lacy curtains. Through it he could see blue sky. Near on his right was a chair that matched the other and next to the bed, against the wall was a small table on which sat a pitcher, basin and a towel.
“Reckon I’m gone over the divide,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Ain’t no other way I’d wake up in such a place.”
He tried to push himself up, ready to test his theory. But a moan involuntarily slipped out of his lips as pain tore through his shoulder, both front and back. Beads of sweat appeared unbidden on his forehead, and he sank back into the plush pillow. “Damn,” he mumbled, breathing heavily. “Reckon I ain’t in heaven, but it can’t be hell neither.”
The pain began to ease, and he let himself drift off to sleep. When he opened his eyes next, a woman’s voice said, “So you’re awake finally.”
He turned his head left. A woman rose from the chair. She was tall and would be considered handsome rather than beautiful. Bloodworth figured her to be about forty. She was well clad in an elegant gray dress with some kind of fancy needlework trim. Her hair—russet though touched with a flecking of gray, was done up in some sort of bun.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Like hell, to be blunt, ma’am,” Bloodworth croaked.
The woman smiled. She walked around the bed and poured some water from the pitcher into a glass. She held his head a little up from the pillow and allowed him to drink, then set his head back down.
“Better,” Bloodworth said.
“Good.” She set the glass on the table.
“How long have I been here?”
“A bit over a week.”
Bloodworth grunted. “How’d I get here?”
“My man put you in our buggy and we drove you here.”
“How…?”
“We were driving along and George saw your fire. We didn’t see a horse or anyone around, so we stopped. Then we spotted you lying there. When we realized you’d been shot, so brought you back to town here.”
“Why?”
“You needed help,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You always pick up wounded strays and bring them home?” Bloodworth was confused. She seemed like a fine lady, one with some wealth and, he assumed, position. And likely a prominent man for a husband.
She smiled. “Not every day. But on occasion. Well, this was the first time, really. But we could tell you had been shot in the back, which doesn’t sit well with me. Even if you deserved to be shot—and I have no idea whether that is true—your would-be assassin should have done so from the front.”
Bloodworth nodded, sending a jolt of pain through him, but he conquered it right off. “And what does your husband think of it?”
>
“I am a widow.”
“I’m sorry,” Bloodworth said haltingly. “I didn’t know. I just figured…”
“You couldn’t know, of course.”
“My apologies nonetheless.”
“Thank you, Mr. …?”
“Bloodworth. Harlan Bloodworth. And you?”
“Edith Wickline.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“And I yours.” Edith smiled. “I know you must be wondering how you are faring. Well, Doctor Shelby says you’ll recover just fine, though it might take some time before you are truly back to your old self.”
“Good to hear,” Bloodworth said honestly.
“Do you think you could eat?”
“I might could a little.”
Edith nodded and left the room. She returned soon, followed by a broad-shouldered man and an attractive young woman carrying a tray on which sat a steaming bowl.
Much to Bloodworth’s chagrin, he had to be partially held up by the man—Edith’s servant, George; Bloodworth learned later that his last name was Smalley—while the maid, Hope, spooned rich, thick broth into his mouth. He didn’t eat much, but what he had felt good going down. And then he fell asleep again.
This time Hope was sitting there when he woke up. She smiled. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get something and be back directly.”
“Don’t bring George with you.”
Hope’s eyes widened, but there was a flicker of pleasure in them that surprised Bloodworth.
“I’ll manage to sit up by myself,” Bloodworth said firmly.
Hope nodded, seeming to understand. While she was gone, Bloodworth struggled to sit up, back against the bed’s headboard. It took tremendous effort, and left him white-faced and sweating. He was glad, though, that he was settled by the time Hope returned.
Afterward, Edith entered the room. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Some.”
“Are you up to a visit from the marshal?”
Bloodworth considered saying no, falling back on his weakness from his wound, but he knew he would have to face the lawman sooner or later, so he figured he might as well get it over with. “Reckon I can see him,” he finally allowed.
Edith left and moments later, a man wearing a tin star on his collarless, striped shirt entered the room. He was thin and not very tall, but he was wiry and had an air of confidence and fearlessness about him.
“I’m Marshal Redmon. You’re Harlan Bloodworth?”
Bloodworth raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
Redmon almost smiled. He learned back against the door. “What happened, Mr. Bloodworth?”
“I was settin’ by my fire a few miles outside of town, mindin’ my own business when some fellers come up and asked to join me. I didn’t have much to offer so told them to move on. Next thing I know, I’m back shot by somebody. That’s the last I remember till I woke up here.”
“So you never saw who shot you?”
“Nope.”
“You know who it was come along and asked to share your fire?”
“Never saw ’em before.”
“Think you’d recognize ’em if you saw ’em again?” the Marshal asked.
Bloodworth hesitated, wondering how much he should say. He fully intended to hunt down the men who had done this to him. He didn’t want the law getting involved. “One of ‘em, maybe,” he finally said. “But I ain’t sure. It was mighty dark and my fire was small. We didn’t spend a lot of time chattin’.”
Redmon glared at him, and Bloodworth knew the Marshal was pretty certain that Bloodworth was lying, or at least not telling all the truth. “Well, if you do see any of ’em, I’d be obliged if you was to let me know. I’ll arrest ’em and make sure they stand trial. I don’t want no vigilantes in my town.”
“I’ll keep that to mind, Marshal.”
Redmon continued to stare at him for some seconds, then turned and left.
Chapter Two
Bloodworth gained strength every day and was soon up and about, at first just taking a few turns around his room, and eventually around the outside of the house.
A month after he first woke in the Wickline home, he felt as well as he ever had. That night, as had become usual, Bloodworth was supping with Edith. After finishing the meal, they were having coffee. Bloodworth set his fine china cup down. “I believe I’ll be leavin’ here directly, Mrs. Wickline,” he said quietly.
She looked startled. “But why?”
“I can’t live off your largess forever, and I have no way to pay you back.”
“I have no need for you to pay me back, Mr. Bloodworth.”
“But I do.”
Edith nodded in understanding. “But what will you do?”
“Find work, wherever it might be.”
“You may work for me.”
“I don’t reckon that’ll suit me. I have no skills in anything that I would do for you.”
“Don’t be so certain, Mr. Bloodworth,” she said, she said, rather cryptically, Bloodworth thought.
“’Sides, I’d not want to displace George in your employ. He has been a faithful and deservin’ employee, from all that I’ve seen in the short time I’ve been here.”
“He has been that, indeed,” Edith said with a smile. “Have you any skills that will find you gainful work?”
Bloodworth smiled ruefully. “My skills are right limited, ma’am, relyin’ mainly on gun work.”
“A gunman?” Edith didn’t seem at all shocked.
“Bounty man, mostly. I never took to hirin’ my gun out.”
“Have you done so for a long time?” She seemed concerned.
“Since just after the war. Wasn’t much work that I could find.”
“Which side were you on?”
“Don’t really matter after all this time, now does it?” He stared at her.
Edith blinked, then shook her head. “No, I suppose it really doesn’t,” she allowed. She paused. “At risk of offending you, did you acquire your limp in the war—or later in your… profession?”
“The war,” he said after a few moments’ hesitation. “Took a ball in the lower leg. Broke the bone. The sawbones wanted to hack the damn leg off, but I was havin’ none of it.”
Edith waited, but there was no more forthcoming. “I’m sorry,” she finally said.
Bloodworth nodded. “I’ve make my peace with it, I reckon you could say.”
“Did you have no family to return to?” Her voice indicated true interest.
Bloodworth shrugged. “My older brother got the family farm after Pa died, and my…Well, let’s just say there wasn’t much reason for me to go back to…home. I wandered a bit, and then a friend who’d become a marshal asked me to come along while he hunted a couple of outlaws causin’ all manner of deviltry in Missouri. One of ’em shot my pal, so I shot him and his compatriot. My friend, being the marshal, wasn’t able to keep the bounty money, so I got it. I figured it wasn’t too bad a way to make some money. I’ve been doin’ it ever since.”
“An interesting history, but it will be hard to find your kind of work here in Dodge,” Edith said with a crooked smile.
“’Specially since I am at a loss for the tools of my trade.”
“Indeed. I can lend you a few dollars” — she held up her hand to prevent any protest — “which you can pay back at your convenience to equip yourself for your chosen work, should you be able to find any of it around here.”
“That’s a mighty handsome offer, ma’am, and I may take you up on it. But I reckon I’ll see if there’s any call for my services.”
“As you wish. You’re welcome to stay here as long as need be.”
“Obliged, ma’am. Soon’s I gain some wages somewhere, I’ll find rooms at a boarding house.”
“You may continue to live in your room here, paying rent,” she said with a friendly grin. “Should you desire that.”
“An
other thing for me to cogitate on. I’d not want to put you out, nor George or Hope.”
“They will not mind,” Edith said matter-of-factly.
He nodded.
“You know, Marshal Redmon might be in need of someone of your particular talents.”
“Might be something to consider, but I expect he’s got enough deputies. ’Sides,” he added with a lopsided grin, “I doubt Redmon’d be too kindly disposed to hirin’ the likes of me.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Bloodworth,” Edith said with a laugh. She was sure he would do well, having taken stock of him while he was recovering. Bloodworth was only of medium height but he had a broad back, powerful shoulders and big, callused hands. Though his face was wide and seemingly flat, some might think him rather handsome. She was sad that he wanted to leave.
** ** ** ** **
The next morning, wearing ill-fitting shirt and pants borrowed from George, Bloodworth went wandering the streets of Dodge, eyeing shops and businesses for some sign that help was wanted. He passed several places seeking employees, as he could not see himself as a store clerk or business helper.
Then he came to the Carleton Stage Company office. In the window was a neatly hand-lettered sign: “Shotgun rider wanted.”
Bloodworth went inside and was greeted by an older fellow, short and stout with a mostly bald pate and a thick mustache. “Welcome. You lookin’ for passage?”
“No, sir. I’m interested in the job posted in the window.”
The clerk peered at him through silver-rimmed glasses. “You have any experience, son?”
“Not directly, but I know how to handle weapons.”
“You’re not heeled.”
“Nope. ’Course, the law says you can’t go heeled in town.” He paused. “Don’t mean I won’t do so if I think it’s a matter of my well-bein’.”
The man grinned. He held out his hand. “Name’s Chester Lawson.”
Bloodworth shook. “Harlan Bloodworth.” He looked around. The place had a well-used look, though it was mostly dust free. The desk behind the knee-high railing was piled high with papers, and more were tacked up along the walls. Various trunks and other baggage lined the walls on either side of the door.