The Wicked Die Twice

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Slash switched his rifle to his left hand. Fast as lightning, he drew his right-side Colt, aimed, and fired between the bars. The blast thundered around the town, echoes ringing off the jail wagon’s bars.

  Beecher slapped his hand to his left ear, eyes wide with shock. Blood dribbled down from beneath the hand clamped to that side of his head.

  “What the hell . . . ?” said Black Pot.

  Both he and Chaney turned to Beecher.

  “Did he shoot you, Beech?” Chaney asked him.

  “Yes, he shot me!” Beecher glared in enraged exasperation at Slash, who smiled at him through the smoke curling up from his Colt’s barrel. “He shot my ear!” He looked at Chaney and removed his hand from his ear. “Take a look!”

  Chaney looked at Beecher’s ear. “Damn, he shot your earlobe right off!”

  “The whole damn thing?” asked Beecher.

  “Most of it. All you got left is a bloody little nub!”

  Black Pot stared at what was left of Beecher’s ear in hang-jawed awe.

  Beecher covered the ear with his hand again and bent forward at the waist. “Damn, that burns!” He looked at Slash. Rage flared again in his eyes.

  He opened his mouth to speak but closed it when Slash cocked the Colt again and said, “Consider very carefully what you say next, Frank.”

  He aimed at Beecher’s other ear.

  Beecher just glared at him. The outlaw’s eyes appeared ready to leap out of their sockets. All three prisoners glared at Slash, but they kept their mouths shut.

  “We understand each other now?” Slash asked. “You’re not gonna say a word to the teacher, understand? No leers or lewd gestures or anything even close.” He paused and looked at Beecher again. “Right, Frank?”

  Beecher just glared at him, his chest rising and falling heavily as he breathed.

  Slash put some steel in his voice as he said again while aiming down his Colt’s barrel, “Right, Frank?”

  Beecher flinched, glanced away. “All right, all right . . . yes, yes. Butter won’t melt in my mouth.”

  Slash switched his gaze as he aimed the Colt’s barrel at Talon Chaney. “Right, Chaney?”

  Chaney held Slash’s gaze for about five seconds before he said, “All right, all right.”

  Slash slid his gaze, as well as the Colt, to Black Pot. “Right?”

  “Sure, sure. If you say so, you old—”

  Slash squeezed the Colt’s trigger.

  Black Pot leaped nearly a foot up off the wagon’s floor as Slash’s bullet ricocheted off a bar in front of the half-breed, then echoed off one to his left and then off another band at the front of the cage, behind Beecher and Chaney, who lowered their heads and clamped their hands over their ears.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Black Pot wailed. “For the love o’ God!”

  “Christ Almighty!” Chaney exclaimed, staring at Slash as though at some savage beast of the wild. “You ain’t even half-right in the head!”

  “No, I’m not.” Slash holstered his Colt. “You remember that. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He swung around and began heading back toward the saloon. “I’m going to go enjoy that first cup of morning coffee.”

  “Don’t forget our breakfast!” Chaney shouted behind him.

  Slash stopped, half turned, and glared back at the man. He draped his right hand over his Colt.

  Chaney flushed, winced. “Please.”

  Slash smiled and continued to Carlisle’s. He climbed the porch steps and stopped. Jenny Claymore stood just outside the batwings, holding a stone mug of steaming black coffee. She gave Slash a coyote smile, glancing at the jail wagon and then shifting her gaze back to Slash again.

  “Here you go,” she said.

  “For me?”

  “For you.”

  Slash smiled as he accepted the cup. “Why, thank you, Jenny.”

  She moved up close to him, rose onto her toes, and pressed her lips to his cheek. “Anytime.”

  Slash flushed and moved on into the saloon, where Pecos sat drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. “You know what, Pecos?” Slash pressed his hand to the warm, moist spot Jenny’s lips had left on his cheek, and said, “I don’t think this is gonna be such a hard trip, after all.”

  Pecos glanced at Jenny moving into the saloon behind Slash, and laughed.

  Jenny continued walking on down the bar to a door at the rear, to the left of the stairs. “I’ll have breakfast out in five minutes,” she said.

  Slash frowned at her retreating back, then sniffed the air. “Is that . . . bacon?” he asked Pecos.

  “It is, indeed. She found some bacon and eggs, an’ she’s even makin’ biscuits.”

  “I’ll be damned. I didn’t know schoolteachers could cook.” Slash sat down in his chair. “I guess I thought that was why they became schoolteachers.”

  “Shows how much you know about the world, Slash,” Pecos said, taking a deep drag off his quirley.

  “Don’t start in on me,” Slash said. “Besides, you’re just jealous, knowin’ I’m likely the only one of us who’s gonna get kissed by a purty girl today.”

  Boots thudded on the stairs. Slash and Pecos turned to see the young town marshal, Glenn Larsen, dropping slowly toward them. Larsen appeared to be moving considerably better this morning. He was dressed in clean duds, as well—a white shirt buttoned to the collar, and blue denim trousers that were just a tad too short in the legs. He wore brown boots, suspenders, and a dark brown, bullet-shaped, round-brimmed hat.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Pecos said. “Look at that.”

  Slash said, “Good mornin’, young marshal. I see you survived the night. Look some better, to boot. Even found some clothes that almost fit you.”

  “A sheepherder kept a room here and a set of fresh clothes. These are his. He’s a little shorter in the legs than I am, but they’ll do. I’ll shop for new ones in Denver.”

  Slash and Pecos shared a curious look.

  “Denver?” Pecos asked.

  “Yes, Denver.” Larsen came to the bottom of the stairs and stopped. With one hand on the newel post, he cast Slash and Pecos a hard, determined look and said, “I’ll be riding with you. I want to make damned good and sure those three devils make it to Denver and swing for what they did here. For what they did to my wife.”

  Pecos glanced at Slash, then grabbed a mug off the bar and filled it with coffee. Turning to the young marshal, he said, “Mud? It ain’t very good, but it’s black.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Larsen walked across the saloon and accepted the mug of coffee from the bigger of the two lawmen. At least, he assumed they were lawmen. They were with the marshal’s service, anyway, though neither wore the customary moon and star of a deputy U.S. marshal.

  “Thanks,” Larsen said.

  The big man, whom the smaller, darker man called Pecos, said, “You sure you feel well enough to make that journey, Marshal?”

  “I’m well enough.” Larsen himself wasn’t sure. But he was going to make the journey, all right.

  Besides, what else did he have to do? He had nothing left here in Dry Fork. Nothing but ashes. His wife and his best friend were dead. He hadn’t seen Henry’s body, but he knew Henry was dead. The killers had bragged to him about their handiwork with knives, torturing the poor old man to death before they’d strolled over to Larsen’s house, jumped him, dragged poor Tiffanie inside, and . . .

  He squeezed his eyes closed.

  The big, blue-eyed man with long, thin gray-blond hair smiled warmly and squeezed his arm. “Why don’t you sit down?” He glanced at the table he’d been occupying with the other man he’d heard the bigger man call Slash. “That old snake don’t bite. Leastways, his fangs are so dull it don’t hurt much.”

  Larsen turned to the table and sat down in a chair across from the man called Slash. Slash stretched his right arm across the table, offering Larsen his open hand. “James Braddock. That big drink of foul-tasting water is Melvin Baker.”

  Larsen fr
owned, puzzled. “I thought I heard . . .”

  “Yeah, I know, I know,” Slash said. “In a past life I was known as Slash and he was known as Pecos, and I’ll be damned if we can get used to callin’ each other by our straight-and-narrow names.”

  Larsen stared down at his coffee, mentally perusing the wanted dodgers filed in his office. “Slash . . . Braddock,” he muttered. As two particular circulars clarified in his mind’s eyes, he glanced first at the man sitting across from him and the bigger man still standing by the potbelly stove. “Slash Braddock and the Pecos River Kid . . . ?”

  Slash grimaced, cut a quick look at Pecos. “Yeah, that’s us, all right. I reckon our reputations still precede us, partner.”

  Larsen heard himself give an amused snort in spite of his mental and physical torment. “Why, I used to read about your exploits in magazines and dime novels . . . back when I was a kid.”

  “Whoa, now,” Pecos said, holding up the hand that wasn’t holding his coffee mug. “That’ll be enough of that. If you ain’t careful, you’re gonna go an’ make Slash an’ I feel old.” He gave a snort of his own and sipped his coffee.

  “You’re going to go and make Slash and me feel old,” Jenny corrected the big ex-cutthroat as she came out of the kitchen with two steaming plates in her hands.

  Slash chuckled.

  “Doggone it,” Pecos said. “I thought I had it right that time!” He flushed as he took another sip of his coffee.

  “Here’s breakfast,” Jenny said. “Mr. Carlisle kept a well-stocked kitchen.” She set a plate down in front of Slash and one at the end of the table nearest Pecos. Turning to Larsen, she said, “I’m glad to see you’re up and around, Marshal Larsen. I’ll bring you a plate right away. I made plenty.”

  Larsen removed his hat, dropped it on the table near his coffee. “Please don’t call me ‘Marshal’ no more, Miss Jenny,” the young man said with a weary sigh. “How can a man be marshal of a town that don’t even exist anymore?”

  Jenny drew her mouth corners down and nodded. Tears glazed her eyes. She drew a breath, suppressing her emotion, and turned and headed into the kitchen. “Just the same, I’ll fetch you a plate.”

  “I’m really not hungry,” Larsen said to her back.

  “You have to eat.” Jenny continued into the kitchen.

  She brought the plate out a few minutes later and set it down in front of the grieving lawman. “Eat as much as you can.”

  “All right.” Larsen looked up at the young woman, whose face was badly bruised, one eye partly swollen. His heart ached for her. He knew what she’d been through. She was lucky to be alive. “How ’bout you, Jenny? How are you doing?”

  She stood by his chair, her hand on the back of it, leaning toward him. She cast her gaze out the window, and a flush of rage rose into her cheeks. “About as well as I can. I’m so sorry about Tiffanie, Glenn. She loved you so very much.”

  “Yeah,” Larsen said, choking back a sob and staring down at his plate as a fresh wave of emotion threatened to swamp him. “Well . . . she’s gone. And I’m gonna make sure those three dogs get to Denver. I’ll be riding along with”—he glanced over at the two ex-cutthroats just then finishing their plates—“Slash and Pecos. Just to be sure,” he added. “I just have to make sure they hang for what they did to Tiffanie and you and Henry and all the rest of the town.”

  Jenny nodded. “I understand. I’m coming, too.”

  Larsen frowned. “You are?”

  She shrugged. “Can’t stay here. I came from Denver. My father and mother are dead, and my sister and brothers have moved on, but it’s the only place I have to go to. They have some private girls’ schools there. I figure maybe I can get a job there.”

  “Are you . . . are you sure you can . . . ride?” he hesitated to ask her.

  She drew a calming breath. “I can ride. Just a little sore is all. But I can ride. I have to.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with . . . with . . . well . . .”

  The young teacher shook her head quickly. “The less said about that situation, the better.” She glanced at Slash and Pecos. “I’ll fill a couple of grub sacks for the trail.”

  “You best eat, too, darlin’,” Slash said.

  She scowled down at Larsen’s plate. So far, he’d only managed to break the yoke on one of his eggs resting on a pile of nicely browned potatoes. “I don’t have much more of an appetite than the mar—er . . . I mean, Glenn . . . does, I’m afraid.”

  She swung around and disappeared back into the kitchen. Larsen figured she was mostly wanting to keep busy, so she didn’t ruminate on what had happened. He understood. Maybe that’s what he in part was doing, as well.

  Larsen forked some egg and potato into his mouth. He swallowed. He was sure it tasted good, but he couldn’t detect any taste at all. It was a small bite of food, but it settled in his belly like poison. He tossed his fork down onto the plate, slid his chair back, and rose from the table.

  “You should eat,” Pecos told him over the steaming rim of his coffee mug. “Gonna be a long ride.”

  Larsen grimaced, shook his head. “My, uh . . . my deputy . . . ?”

  “We left him in your office,” Slash said a little guiltily. “With another man. We figured if we started buryin’ folks, we’d be here forever ”

  “I understand. It’s his gun I want.”

  Larsen set his hat on his head and strode across the room and out through the batwings. He stopped at the top of the porch steps and stared at the jail wagon parked on the street before Carlisle’s. He looked at the killers. Sitting back against the jail wagon’s far barred wall, two stared back at him. Hell-Raisin’ Frank Beecher appeared asleep, head down, chin against his chest. Chaney elbowed him, and Beecher raised his head.

  All three gazed in silence at the town marshal, whom they’d beaten, whose wife they’d ravaged most brutally, whose citizens they’d terrorized and butchered . . . whose town they’d burned. They stared at him without expression, their eyes flat and dull. They could have been three dogs or wildcats imprisoned over there in that wagon. Not the least bit of shame. But, then, there was nothing more savage than a savage man. That was a breed all unto itself....

  Larsen walked down the porch steps. He turned east and angled across the street, passing the burned-out hulks of buildings, the sodden piles of ash and charred wood. His boots made sucking sounds in the mud. He approached the fire-scorched stone building that housed his office. He paused in front of the door, steeling himself. He could already smell the sickly sweet stench of death. His guts twisted.

  Grimacing, he drew a deep breath and pushed through the door.

  He stopped just inside and looked around. Eddie Black lay belly down a few feet inside the office. His throat had been cut. He lay in a large dark red pool of his own semidried blood. Two broken plates littered the floor. The food was gone. Apparently, the killers had taken time to eat their dinner meals—probably while they’d tortured Two Whistles. Henry lay just beyond him, near Larsen’s overturned chair. The poor old half-breed was covered in blood. They’d cut him to ribbons, torturing him slowly before they’d finally slit his throat.

  Henry lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. An expression of incomprehensible pain and terror still shaped itself on his mouth. The death stench lay thick and heavy.

  “Jesus.”

  Larsen hurried forward, stepped around Eddie Black’s blood. Quickly, Larsen removed the holstered Colt Lightning and cartridge belt from around Two Whistles’s waist. He cinched it around his own waist, then walked over to the gun cabinet on the far wall. Two Winchester carbines remained in the rack, the chain over which had been unlocked and removed by the killers. They’d taken back their own revolvers and rifles, which Larsen had hauled out of Carlisle’s after he and Two Whistles had jailed Chaney and the other two outlaws. Larsen grabbed one of the carbines. He plucked a box of .44 cartridges from the bottom drawer of his desk, and stepped over his deputy and around Eddie Black as he made hi
s way back to the door.

  He stopped and turned back to the dead men. He considered a burial, but nixed the idea. The ground was too wet. It would take too long. Besides, he didn’t think he was physically capable. The beating had taken a lot out of him and left him with miserably aching ribs. The elements and the predators would have to suffice for Henry and Eddie Black. Larsen really didn’t see much difference, anyway.

  Worms or coyotes?

  The erosion of time and the elements would have to suffice. As for Tiffanie, she’d been consumed by the fires that had leveled their house. There was nothing left of her to bury or to be desecrated by the carrion-eaters.

  His stomach churning against the stench and the grisly sight inside the office, Larsen hurried out the door. He stopped and drew a deep breath, then another and another. He loaded the carbine from the cartridge box, jacked one into the chamber, off-cocked the hammer, and lowered the rifle to his side.

  He walked back toward Carlisle’s, grimacing at the ache in his ribs. He hoped he could sit a saddle. He would have to. He couldn’t stay here. Besides, he owed it to Tiffanie and Henry to make sure their killings were avenged. He wanted to see Chaney, Black Pot, and Beecher hang from the neck until they were dead. Somehow, he had a feeling that when he watched them die, Tiffanie and Henry would rest a little easier.

  He was nearly to Carlisle’s front steps when he stopped and turned toward the jail wagon. He’d sensed the killers’ eyes on him. He hadn’t been imagining it. All three stared at him through the bars. He’d hoped they’d at least have those blank looks again. He’d hoped they wouldn’t be smiling. But that’s what they were doing, all right.

  They were smiling at him. Mocking him. Mocking his pain and his grief over his wife and his best friend’s killings.

  It was too much for Larsen to suppress. The anger was overwhelming.

  He dropped the carbine and the cartridge box, and hardening his jaws, he turned and strode toward the wagon. His pulse throbbed in his knees. He clenched his fists at his sides until he thought the knuckles would burst through the skin. He kept seeing his burned house all but leveled to nothing but black ashes. He kept seeing Henry lying butchered in the office. He kept hearing Tiffanie’s screams . . . her wails . . . her pleas for help that was not going to come . . .