by John Legg
Bloodworth considered grabbing the pistol he kept on the wagon floor, but then decided it would not be wise.
“Let’s not take all the day, pal,” the outlaw warned.
Bloodworth grabbed the box and tossed it onto the ground. Then he heard one of the female passengers say, “No, you can’t have that. My husband…”
“Just hand it over, lady,” the outlaw there said.
“Take your hands off her, you bastard,” one of the male passengers said.
Then there was a gunshot. As Bloodworth reached down and grabbed the pistol, two more shots rang out, and a woman screamed. He whirled and shot the man in front, once in the chin and once in the stomach. He jumped off the coach, cursing with the jolt to his bad leg, and fired. He hit the mounted outlaw, who was trying to flee, in the back. The man slumped forward as the horse raced off across the prairie.
A shot whizzed by Bloodworth’s head and he dropped to one knee. The outlaw who was robbing the passengers let loose another shot that just missed and thudded into the side of the coach.
Behind Bloodworth, Adcock was fighting to hold the frightened, wildly whinnying horses in check. Bloodworth snapped off the final three shots in his pistol, the bullets driving the outlaw backward a few steps as they punched holes in his chest.
Another shot came from behind him and he whirled in time to see Adcock slump to the side. “Son of a…”
The horses bolted. Bloodworth jammed the empty pistol into his holster and took off running, cursing his lame leg. But he managed to grab hold of the boot and after being dragged along several yards, was able to haul himself up by the strength of his arms.
Sweating, he crawled across the top of the wildly lurching wagon. He finally gained the box. Adcock was slumped on the floor of the box, and Bloodworth had to strain to push him out of the way a little. He was surprised when Adcock moaned and made a small effort to help. Bloodworth breathed a sigh of thanks that the reins were still loosely wrapped around the brake handle. He grabbed them and pulled hard on them, straining, feet braced against the box front. After a few minutes, he had slowed the horses enough to where he could control them somewhat with one hand, while yanking on the brake with the other.
He finally managed to bring the animals to a halt. Breathing heavily, he sat for a moment, then began the slow arduous process of turning the stage around. “You all right?” he asked, looking down at Adcock.
The driver’s face was pale and screwed up in pain. “No, dammit.”
“Hang on.” Though the horses were lathered, he slapped the reins on them and got them running again, and once more had trouble bringing them to a stop, but he did so not far from where the passengers were huddled around a couple of bodies. With barely a glance at Adcock, Bloodworth hurriedly climbed down and limped over to the group, which parted for him, silent and stunned.
“Ah, lord,” he whispered. “Goddamn, son of a bitch.” He knelt at Edith’s side, and took one of her limp hands in his. Her chest was covered in blood. He slid a hand across her eyes, closing them. Rage held back his tears.
He pushed himself slowly to his feet. “How did this happen?” he asked tightly, looking from face to face. All turned their heads away from him. “How the hell did this happen?” he roared.
One of them women looked at him, her face covered in dirt and tears. “I…I…I wanted to keep the necklace my late husband gave me. And, well, Mr. Judd there, he tried to stop that man from…”
Bloodworth whirled. “So you pulled a pocket gun?” Bloodworth demanded, his voice tight with rage. He stepped up and grabbed the man from the front of his frock coat and jerked him forward. “Is that what you did, you stupid son of a bitch?” he screamed, face inches from Judd’s, so close that spittle landed on the man’s face.
Judd blanched, terror springing into his eyes. “I was just…just…trying to…”
“You got her killed, you dumb bastard!” He shoved Judd away and then smashed a fist into his face. Judd staggered back, then fell. Bloodworth pounded Judd. He grabbed Judd’s shirtfront again and pulled him up a foot or so and continued to hammer Judd, who tried to cover himself up with little success.
“Harlan!” someone yelled, but Bloodworth ignored him. “Harlan!”
Two passengers struggled to pull Bloodworth away, but it was only Adcock’s third bellow of Bloodworth’s name that finally got him to stop. He turned, eyes beginning to focus again. “I thought you was dead, Gil,” he said, breath coming hard to him.
“Damn near.” He lurched forward, and put a hand on Bloodworth’s shoulder. “There’s work to be done, Harlan. We need to get Miz Wickline back to Dodge to be taken care of.” He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. “And I need tendin’.”
Jaw clenched in fury still, Bloodworth gave a short nod. He knelt and easily lifted Edith. “Somebody get the coach door,” he ordered.
The woman who had spoken, pale and still teary, rushed over and did so. Bloodworth gently laid Edith’s body on one of the bench seats.
“You’ll have to drive, Harlan,” Adcock said.
“Can you get up in the box?”
“Ain’t likely. It took all I got to get down. I sure as hell ain’t got the strength to climb up there.”
“Then get on in here,” he said, indicating the coach. “The rest of you can fit in where you will, the three ladies on the seats. You,” he pointed at one man, a young fellow, who had the appearance of a workman, “can ride on top. And you,” he pointed to another, one wearing a threadbare suit, “can ride up in the box with me.”
“What about Mr. Judd?” the same woman asked.
“What about him?” His face betrayed no sympathy.
“But he’s injured and…”
“He brought his misfortune on himself.” There was no sympathy in his voice either.
“But, Mr. Bloodworth…”
He glared, but then said, “A couple of you men want to stuff him in the coach on the floor, that’s your concern. But first, jam those outlaws’ bodies in the boot. Toss whatever luggage you need to up top. You got five minutes and then I’ll be off.”
He limped away, tiredness beginning to take the edge off his rage. He picked his own pistol as well as the shotgun. He holstered the former after tossing his box gun up under the seat. The latter soon followed. He walked around the other side of the coach as the two men who were to ride above climbed up.
“You see who shot you, Gil?” Bloodworth asked though the window.
“Fellah over near the trees.”
“I saw him, just a glance, though.”
“I looked over at him when the ruckus began. He waited only a few seconds, then fired at me.”
“You get a good look at him?”
“Nope. He was masked, like the others. He wore a high-crowned brown hat and was riding a palomino.”
Bloodworth nodded. He turned and in a moment was in the box. Not caring whether everyone was in the coach or not, he got the team moving. He stopped at Wilson’s just long enough for the horses to be changed. The passengers had barely enough time to take care of business and grab some bread and jerky to bring along before they were on their way again. Not sparing the horses, they arrived in Dodge just before midnight.
Chapter Eight
Bloodworth pounded on Marshal Redmon’s door. The lawman, none too pleased, finally yanked open the door. “You!” he snapped. “What the hell do you want?
“I want you to do your job,” Bloodworth said tightly.
“Sure. I will, in the mornin’. Now get the hell away from me.” He stated to close the door.
Bloodworth slammed it back open and grabbed Redmon by the shirtfront. “You’ll do it now! We got two dead miscreants and…” His voice caught in his throat, “Miz Wickline…”
Redmon snapped to alertness. “What? The hell you say. What happened?” he babbled.
“Several devils held up the stage. Some damn fool passenger tried to stop ’em, and did nothin’ but get Edith killed. Gil’s b
ad hurt, shot to hell. We got him over to Doc Shelby’s.”
“They get away?”
“I sent two of ’em across the divide. The other two made their escape. One of ’em’s hit but I don’t know how bad.”
“Come on in,” Redmon said. “Set while I get dressed. Redmon hurriedly pulled on trousers and shirt. As he was buttoning the latter, he said, “I’ll get a posse up soon’s I can. Might be tough right now, what with the whole damn town asleep.”
“Wake ’em,” Bloodworth growled.
“Oh, I intend to,” Redmon said, sitting to pull on socks and boots. “You’ll be comin’ along, yes?
“No.” When the lawman looked at him in surprise, Bloodworth said, “Soon’s I can get me a horse, I’m ridin’ out. Y’all can catch up when you can.”
Redmon nodded. “You don’t have a horse, do you?”
“No. Nor tack either.”
“We’ll fix that straight off. You need anything else?”
“Winchester, cartridges, bedroll, canteen.”
Redmon rose, all business now. “Let’s go.”
They hurried to the livery, where Redmon roused a sleepy, grumpy liveryman. “Get Mr. Bloodworth here a horse, Gus—one of your best, a sturdy one with stamina. And whatever tack is necessary. The best.”
“But, Marshal …”
“Don’t but marshal me, Gus. Just do what I say. And be quick about it. We’ll be back directly.”
“That’ll be mighty costly.”
“I don’t much care. Maybe the town will pay for it. Or the stage company.”
Gus’ brow furrowed. “Something’s wrong, ain’t it?”
“Bad wrong. Now do as I say. And saddle my horse, too.”
“Right away, Marshal.”
As he and Bloodworth were walking away, Redmon called over his shoulder. “You’ll be busy shortly. Best be ready.”
Next they hurried to Pettibone’s hardware and mercantile, around back, where Redmon pounded on the door. Miles Pettibone, somewhat less annoyed than others had been, answered. When Redmon told him what was needed, he neither argued nor delayed. He led them into the store, gave Bloodworth what he needed, and did not bother to ask what this was all about.
“Does George know?” Redmon asked as Pettibone went about his business. “Or Hope?”
“No.” Bloodworth shook his head. “I’ll tell ’em on my way out of town.”
“You want I should tell ‘em?”
Bloodworth thought that over a moment, then shook his head. “Reckon I should be the one. Besides, you got work to do.”
Redmon nodded. “And I best get to it.” He paused. “How’re you gonna recognize this fella? You said you never did get a good look at him.”
“I’ll find him, Don’t you fret.”
Redmon stared a minute. Then he nodded and headed out.
A few minutes later, Bloodworth, carrying a new Winchester and several boxes of cartridges, followed by Pettibone with the rest of his supplies, headed toward the stable. Bloodworth’s horse was ready. He quickly loaded his gear. He pulled himself into the saddle. “Obliged,” he said, touching the brim of his hat at the liveryman and then Pettibone.
Five minutes later he stopped in front of Edith Wickline’s house. With some reluctance, he knocked, waited a bit, then knocked again, louder.
A sleepy Hope cracked open the door. “Mr. Bloodworth?” she asked, puzzled.
Bloodworth nodded. “Is George about?”
“He’s sleeping, of course. Is something wrong?”
“Yes. Go and fetch him. I’ll wait in the sitting room.”
Worry sprang into Hope’s eyes. “Yes, sir,” she said, voice quavering a bit. She turned and hurried off.
Bloodworth went in and closed the door quietly behind him. In the sitting room, he poured himself a small glass of brandy and jolted it down. He followed it with another.
“What’s all this?” Charles snapped. “Hope wakes me in the middle of the night. She’s says you told her something’s bad wrong.”
Bloodworth hated to do what he was about to do, as it would hurt Hope, but he had no time or patience to deal with this buffoon. “Miz Edith’s dead,” he said flatly.
Hope screeched and clapped her hands to her mouth. Tears leaked, then flowed.
“The hell you say,” Charles said, eyes blank with shock.
“Bandits held up the stage and she was shot down,” Bloodworth said, rage boiling inside him again. “She is at Bock’s mortuary. He will take the best of care with her. You two will have to see to arrangements.”
“What about you?” Charles asked, still shaken.
“I’m goin’ after those two I didn’t get right off.” Bitterness mixed with the fury in his voice. “You take care of Hope, now, boy, you hear?” He did not wait for an answer. He slapped on his hat, turned and hustled out the door. As such, he did not see the fleeting gleam of avarice in George Smalley’s eyes nor the flash of fear in Hope’s.
** ** ** ** **
Bloodworth spent three hours at Wilson’s stage stop, long enough for a quick, poor-tasting meal, a short nap and to let his horse rest a bit. Then he was back in the saddle, just after dawn, pushing hard. Not long after, he stopped at the spot where the robbery had taken place. He tied the horse loosely to a cottonwood at the river’s edge. Then he prowled the area, looking for sign of where the two who had escaped had gone. Of the one who was unharmed, there was nothing; just some hoof prints that could’ve been made by the outlaw or by a thousand others who had stopped in the area. Bloodworth had wounded the other, however, though in the back, so it took a little bit of searching to find the blood trail.
He followed it on afoot just a bit, then turned back and mounted his horse. The trail was easy to follow, so he could move at a good pace, having to stop only now and again to make sure he was still on the right path. Sometime in midafternoon, he slowed, then halted, listening intently. He nodded when he heard a soft moaning. There was nowhere to tie his horse out here on the open prairie, so he ground staked the animal. Slipping out his pistol, he crept forward.
He found the wounded man in a buffalo wallow ten yards ahead. The man was lying on his side, facing Bloodworth, but not looking at him. His face was dirty, covered with sweat and pinched with pain. His shirtfront was bloody from the exit wound. A canteen lay in front of him.
Bloodworth slipped his pistol way. He knelt in front of the man and lifted his chin with a forefinger. “You’re hurt mighty bad, boy,” Bloodworth said without inflection.
“I know,” the man whispered.
“What’s your name?”
“Frank Gilmore.”
“Well, Mr. Gilmore, you’re in a deep pile of shit here. Ain’t much I can do to help you, I suppose, but it might help you ease the way with your maker was you to tell me who your pard was. The one who run off. And tell me where I can find him.”
“Don’t know.”
“I reckon it won’t come as a surprise that I don’t believe you. It might go better for you to just tell me.”
“Go to hell.”
“That’s no way to act, boy. Like I said, I maybe can’t help you a lot. But I can damn sure make your end a hell of a lot more painful.” He paused to let that sink in. “So who is that fellah was over there by the river?”
“I told you, go to hell.”
Bloodworth cracked the heel of his palm against Gilmore’s forehead, snapping his head back and exposing his chest. “His name.” Bloodworth hissed.
“No.”
Bloodworth slammed a fist into the exit wound on Gilmore’s chest.
Gilmore hissed in agony and fought to catch his breath. Bloodworth felt no pleasure as Gilmore’s eyes clouded with it.
“Who is he?” He reared back to launch another fist.
Gilmore held up his hands. “Wait,” he managed to gurgle out as he still struggled to breath. When the pain subsided, he squawked, “Ed Tucker.”
“Good. Now where can I find him?
“
Ain’t sure.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, boy.”
“I don’t know. Far’s I know he took off after the trouble started. I was goin’ the other way, as you well know, seein’s how you was the one shot me in the back.”
Bloodworth considered that for a few seconds. “Reckon that’s true,” he said thoughtfully. “But you ought to know where he’d go. He got a hideout somewhere? A favorite place to hang his hat? A whorehouse somewhere?”
Gilmore lay his head down, eyes closed, face contorted with pain. It was some moments before his lids rose. “Abilene, maybe. I hear he’s got kin there. St. Joe, too. Hell, maybe he headed down into the Nations.”
“No more notion than that?”
“Reckon not.”
“You know, boy, I still don’t believe you.” He punched Gilmore in the ribs, breaking several.
For a moment Bloodworth thought Gilmore was going to pass out, but the outlaw was tougher than he expected.
Gilmore gasped and choked. He spit up some blood, then wheezed. Bloodworth waited. “My patience is quite limited, boy,” he said, voice cold and hard.
“He favors some whore over in Wichita,” Gilmore finally managed to croak. “Maybe he went there. He didn’t, I don’t know where he might be. But that’s the most likely.”
“Even though folks might be lookin’ for him?”
Gilmore could not quite pull off the shrug he wanted to. “Reckon he wouldn’t be worried. You got Bill and Chester. I reckon he figures you got me, too. So I would say he’s likely feelin’ safe now, especially since you never saw his face, best I can tell.”
“Which brings to mind what he looks like.”
“Tall, I guess. Leastways taller’n me and you by a bit. Narrow face, long nose.”
“Nothing to distinguish him from any number of hard men in this country?”
“His left eye ain’t right.”
“How so?”
“Don’t look in the same direction as the other. Kind of all cockeyed like.”
“What’s this whore’s name?”