Deadly Manhunt (A Tony Masero Western)

by Tony Masero

  Swaggering, Rio came languidly forward, a sneer of confidence on his face. Slade moved. It was like a clock spring being unwound and in the stillness of the room the shock of speed was redoubled. In a flash, Slade was in front of Rio and delivering an uppercut that sent the deputy head rocking back. Rio’s lower jaw was driven to connect with his upper lip, driving the teeth through and splitting opening a bloody gash.

  ‘You damn fool bastard!’ Slade cursed him angrily and drawing back his elbow at shoulder height he hit Rio again. The blow burst the deputy’s nose apart and knocked him back against the window ledge behind.

  Slade was about to push the deputy out through the open window when he recalled the others in the room and whirled to face them, his pistol drawn and ready in his right hand.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ he ordered Ben Raymonds, whose fingers were already on his pistol butt and the deputy froze. Behind him, Slade heard a clattering and thump as Rio collapsed to the floor.

  ‘You fellas really push your luck, don’t you?’ snarled Slade. ‘What did you think? You brainless assholes. I was some new joker all wet behind the ears ready for you dumb hicks to make a fool of.’ He backed away so that all of them were in his sight. ‘Well, now you know different.’

  Slade looked sharply at the sheriff, who had risen and was standing half-frozen behind his desk. ‘I want those deed papers, sheriff. You see I get them, you understand?’

  Smith nodded dumbly, his nervous eyes round with fear.

  ‘Tell your friend,’ Slade said coldly to the other two, waving the Colt in Rio’s direction. ‘Don’t mess with me. Next time I’ll finish him.’

  With that he backed out of the door and into the street. The flow of adrenalin ran through him as he re-holstered his weapon and tossed the small lead tube in the air and caught it with a satisfied smile before putting it back in his pocket. The flood of victory called for a drink. He felt he could handle it. Hell, he could handle anything. So thinking he made his way through the crush in the street and headed for the Cool House Saloon.

  He was back, Slade thought. The old Jack Slade was still here, capable and sharp. He could handle anything. He was immortal. In the flush of gratified violence Slade justified his desire for a beer with the confident knowledge it would go no further. Just one, that was all. No spirits, only a cold beer. The schooner was on his lips, the remembered taste redolent in his brain and he hurried on eagerly.

  He pulled up sharply as he saw Jane, pushing open the swing doors of the saloon ahead of him, a store clerk behind her bearing an armful of boxes.

  Slade stood stock still on the boardwalk and let the crowds of passersby wave around him as he stared after her. He cursed to himself as the desire for booze slid from his mind and a chill entered his heart.

  Dammit, he thought. He could not allow Jane the satisfaction of seeing him standing at the bar with a glass in his hand. Abruptly, he stepped off into the street at an angle away from the saloon and headed for the Wortley Hotel.

  Next morning Slade, in no better frame of mind than the evening before, collected the ordered buckboard and had the temporary coffin loaded with the help of the undertaker’s assistant, an old timer called Jacob Bentink who also served as gravedigger. The two mounted the buckboard and with Bentink alongside him to assist, Slade drove the buckboard out towards the pool where he had found the remains of Colonel Friday.

  Jacob was a grizzled character who was obviously glad to take the drive and escape the attentions of his undertaker boss for a while. He plucked a well-worn hardwood pipe from his jerkin pocket and soon had a small bonfire going. He puffed contentedly as they rode along until Slade finally said, ‘What the hell you set alight to there? God! That stuff smells worse than burning buffalo hide.’

  ‘This?’ said the old man, sniffing and staring down at his smoldering bowl. ‘Why, you think this is foul smelling, Marshal? It’s a special blend. Never had no complaint before.’

  ‘With that stink and the smoke signals you’re sending off I reckon every Chiricahua within a hundred miles will know we’re coming.’

  ‘Nah,’ smiled Jacob with a toothy grin. ‘Got me some of this from a trading post Apache over at Fort Stanton. They love the stuff.’

  ‘Well, I sure as hell don’t. Put it out.’

  Jacob cast him a rueful eye but did as he was told and knocked out the bowl of the pipe against the wagon’s side.

  They travelled in silence for a while, Slade sullenly locked into his own troubled thoughts and the irritation of his alcohol-starved system until Jacob broke the quiet.

  ‘Where we headed to anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Out near the Causter place,’ Slade supplied. ‘The body’s laid out there near a waterhole.’

  ‘That a fact?’ wheezed the old man. ‘That’s the Kid’s country out there, best tread easy.’

  ‘Billy the Kid?’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Jacob, willing to wax lyrical as they were travelling at a relaxed pace. ‘That boy sure covers some territory but they say old man Causter’s wife takes to him and treats him well when he passes by.’

  ‘You ever met the Kid?’

  ‘I’ve seen him a time or two. Clarence Kelly the undertaker, loves the guy, reckons he brings in a lot of business. They say the Kid’s killed twenty-five men all told but he always struck me as a nice enough fellow.’

  ‘Nice!’ Slade exclaimed in surprise.

  ‘Yeah, he’s personable, you understand? Always has a ready smile on his face. Just a young fellow who had some rough times behind him and now cuts up rough in return but you don’t cross him and he’ll treat you fine.’

  ‘That’s a first,’ Slade observed dourly. ‘A nice killer, I’ve never heard that one said of a murderer before.’

  ‘He was just one of the whole bunch of gunslingers involved in the County War here a while back,’ said Jacob. ‘Nobody paid him much heed until Governor Wallace put that five hundred dollar bounty on his head. Suddenly the guy gets notoriety and a parcel of lawmen after him.’

  ‘A bit different the way I heard it. Cattle and horse rustling as well as riding wild and killing, that’s an outlaw boy you’re talking of there. I reckon Pat Garrett will settle his hash soon enough anyways,’ said Slade confidently. ‘The Kid’s on his way to a sorry end that’s for sure.’

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Jacob. ‘Mister Garrett seems a determined enough fellow alright.’

  The conversation dropped for a moment as Slade angled the mules through some tricky dips in the road, then when they were clear he geed the team up and they rode on again at the same steady pace.

  ‘I seen some men of the law in my time,’ Slade admitted. ‘It’s a sure thing that Garrett will be good at what he does in my estimation.’

  ‘You served the star before this then, Marshal?’

  ‘I did, town sheriff up in Wisconsin.’

  Jacob slapped his knee. ‘Sure, that’s where I know you from. Julesville, right? I worked the coalmines there for a spell. Was there when that gang blew the place to pieces. Hell, that was something else, that day. You remember it, Mister Slade? Well, course you do, you being involved in the gunfight with the perpetrators and all.’

  Slade’s head sunk into his shoulders, it was just his luck to find himself in a wagon with an old miner who had been there.

  ‘How did all that pan out?’ Jacob asked keen to hear more. ‘I was busy with most of the wounded after the blast, didn’t get to see much else.’

  ‘They got their desserts,’ was all Slade could bring himself to offer.

  ‘You don’t say and that young fellow, the one they called Johnny Dollar, how’d he fare?’

  ‘Well enough,’ Slade mumbled.

  ‘Nice boy,’ Jacob mused. ‘Another one that had a rough time of it, I fancy. I heard he was shot dead, is that right?’

  ‘So they say,’ said Slade, looking off into the distance and trying to extricate his thoughts from the memory of young Jake.

  ‘Left a wife and a baby child, did
n’t he?’

  ‘Look here,’ snapped Slade suddenly. ‘Leave it, will you? It’s ancient history now.’

  ‘Well…. I….’ gasped Jacob in surprise. ‘Sorry, Marshal, I didn’t mean to intrude, I’m sure. Thought you’d be pleased to mention it, you doing so well up there and all.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t and I’d be pleased if you’d refrain to mentioning it to others as well. Down here I’m just a plain old lawman doing his job. No stories or hints of past glories if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, of course,’ mumbled Jacob, his curiosity aroused by Slade’s volatile reaction. ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘You say the Kid calls here at Causter’s?’ Slade asked in an attempt to change the direction of the conversation.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Jacob. ‘I don’t think Causter favors the boy hisself but his missus has a kinder heart, so they say.’

  ‘Might be that Pat Garrett would like to hear of this.’

  Jacob crooked his head onto one side. ‘I didn’t intend to play informer here, I was just making parley, you know?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell where I heard it.’

  He noted the rock formation ahead, ‘See there?’ he said. ‘That’s the place. We’ll angle around back of them rocks and pick up the remains.’

  With that he pulled off the road and further conversation was stilled as they jounced and bounced over the rough country.

  They found the Colonel as Slade had left him still propped up against the rock.

  ‘Poor old fellow,’ observed Jacob, looking at the bare skull and empty eye sockets staring back at him as they unloaded the coffin.

  ‘Will you see to him?’ asked Slade, looking over towards the open desert. ‘I want to scout around further out, the man’s son Peter is still missing. Might be he wandered off farther away than I had time to search last time I was here.’

  Jacob nodded and began his grim work as Slade set out on foot taking a line from the spot where he had found the portion of torn cloth from the child’s shirt. Taking a canteen with him Slade walked for an hour, the hot sun blasting at him as it rose higher into the sky. By mid-morning he had found nothing and was ready to give up and start back when he found the tracks.

  A broad path of them, some weeks old by the look and made by a mixture of shod and unshod ponies. Apache, he guessed, riding some of their own and also ponies stolen from the whites. His eyes followed the line of the trail and could see it headed off west towards the high country around the Capitan Mountains. The Chiricahua were probably making for one of their mountain redoubts in the Sacramento’s and Slade wondered if this band had come across the boy as they passed by. If so, he reckoned it would be unlikely to find the lad now, unless by some chance the army came across him in one of their raids.

  He turned back disconsolately towards the waiting buckboard and Jacob. When he came within sight he saw that Jacob had been joined by a small figure and recognized it was Solon Causter’s son Joey.

  ‘Hey, Joey,’ he greeted the boy as he came up.

  ‘Howdy, Marshal. You find anything?’

  Slade shook his head, ‘Just old Indian tracks.’

  ‘You reckon they took the kid?’ asked Jacob as he finished tying down the coffin in the buckboard.

  ‘Could be but I didn’t find any sign that the lad was out there.’

  Joey was watching him closely and Slade wondered what the boy was doing around this side of the rocks. He had a small caliber rifle and a pack strapped across his shoulder and Slade wondered about that too.

  ‘What you doing out here, Joey?’ he asked.

  The boy wrinkled his nose, ‘Little bit of hunting is all. Thought I might catch me a rabbit.’

  ‘Did you ever find this?’ Slade asked, nodding towards the now loaded coffin. ‘You being such an all-fired hunter, fisherman and all round swimmer in that pool over yonder.’

  Joey pressed his lips together and shook his head, ‘Can’t say that I did. Has it been here long?’

  ‘Long enough. You sure you had no idea it was here?’

  ‘No, sir. I never come over this side of the rocks, I heard Mister Bentink at work and that’s what caught my attention. That’s why I climbed over, just to see what was going on.’

  ‘Okay, boy,’ said Slade. ‘You’d better get along. Take care out there though.’

  ‘Yes sir, I will,’ said Joey with a grin and a wave. ‘So long, Mister Bentink.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Slade climbed aboard and saw that Jacob was watching Joey wander off. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Weird kid, is all. Out here all on his own, don’t seem right somehow,’ Jacob answered as he swung himself up onto the seat. ‘His folks should keep him close to home with all these Apache about.’

  ‘Causter reckons he has them kept friendly with beef,’ Slade advised.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ Jacob was doubtful. ‘But you never know what’s in an Indian’s mind. You thinks it’s all fine and you’re real good friends and then one day they’re just as likely to stick a knife in your back and steal your wife and children away.’

  Slade heard the tone in his voice and looked across at him, ‘Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.’

  Jacob shook his head, ‘That I do, that I do,’ he admitted sadly.

  Chapter Seven

  Once back in Lincoln, Slade left Jacob at the undertakers and went across to the Wortley to discover if Garrett was back from his building project over at Little Creek. Little Creek was the other side of Roswell at around seventy miles away and Garrett was intent on setting up a ranch home there for his family. Slade discovered he was not back yet and he went up to his room to clean up after his hot day in the desert sun.

  Once his ablutions were done he moped around his room restlessly, considering what to do next. It was interesting, he decided, that Billy the Kid came calling at the Causter ranch and he wondered if the Kid or one of his associates had anything to do with the Colonel Friday’s death. So much killing had gone on around Lincoln during the County War that maybe some still bore grudges and the Colonel’s murder had been a part of that payback.

  There was one other avenue he had not yet explored he realized. Charlie Willows, the disappeared clerk. If he could find him he might at least discover the significance of the papers the Colonel had been after. Although he recognized that the Colonel could not have attached too much importance to them if he took his son along for the ride. Maybe it had been no more than a random query that took the Colonel on his ride out to the Freshwater Ranch. No more than an excuse to spend some time with the lad before they left the county.

  But he had little else to go on. He was no nearer discovering the Colonel’s killer or the reason for his murder so he was clinging at straws with Charlie Willows. It was all he had though and he needed to discover more about the clerk. Slade knew that he could get that kind of information from any local drinking hole. At least, that was his excuse as he put on his hat and gun and determined to go visit the Cool House Saloon.

  It was evening by the time he arrived and the saloon was just getting started on its nighttime round of entertainment. Already the bar was fully lined with drinkers and card games were in play at the rear of the place.

  A long, high ceilinged room with bare boards underfoot and stripped tree trunks supporting the cavernous roof above. The trunk posts stretched the length of the saloon and gave the place a cathedral atmosphere but that was about as far as any religious association went.

  Slade pushed open the swing doors and the hot scent of sweat, tobacco smoke and liquor reached out to him with familiarity. It was an old friend. A comfortable air of forgetful memory where all could be lost in the pleasant warming haze of a whiskey glass.

  Slade swallowed and wet his lips as he stood a moment struggling with the temptation. He watched men greedily supping long glasses of cold beer or throwing back shots of burning liquor. The taste was on his lips and the desire strong within him. The only thing th
at held him from rushing to the bar and throwing money down for a full bottle was his promise to Garrett. He knew that if he started, if he tasted one sip he would be lost and his opportunity at any kind of life lost forever. He would return to the drifting existence where nothing mattered and only the alcohol could dull the pain of each waking day.

  The moment passed and he was with himself again. Once again he was Jack Slade, Deputy Marshal with a mission to fulfill.

  Then he saw her, copper hair piled high and moving from the bar with two full beer schooners, one in each hand as she made her way over to the waiting customers as a table behind one of the broad pillars. Slade watched her move, swaying her slender body between tables and offering a smile to a joking cowhand. She was dressed in the low neckline and feathers of a whore with the dress hiked up to show a turn of ankle. It could not diminish her beauty in his eyes though.

  He wanted her. It rose in him and his chest filled with the thought but with an effort of will he wrenched his thoughts away from the notion.

  Turning to the bar he spotted the old undertaker man, Jacob Bentink, his smelly pipe protruding from his jaw. Past experience told what a garrulous soul he was and Slade decided that here a good place to start.

  ‘Marshal,’ greeted Jacob as Slade hove into view. ‘Can I buy you one?’

  ‘Obliged but no thanks,’ said Slade, again repressing the desire to call for quite the opposite. ‘Do you mind if we have a word?’

  ‘No, sir. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Let’s step aside from the bar, if we may. It’s kinda private.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jacob, taking the pipe from his mouth and lifting his beer as he eased out from the press. He followed Slade over to one side of the room and an unattended table in a shadowy corner.

  ‘What do you know about this fellow Charlie Willows?’ Slade asked once they were seated.

  ‘Charlie? The clerking man for the Colonel?’