Here.
Alive.
Holy shit!
It was almost too incredible to believe. And yet, in what might be called a cockeyed twist of fate, it was really quite fitting and proper. After all, seven years ago, when everybody else was so damned willing to accept that the Devil’s River Kid must surely have perished in that freak blizzard, it was Brannigan who’d held fast to the belief that the sneaky bastard had somehow gotten away. And now, after all the years and all the hard miles trampled in between, Brannigan had walked out of that cellblock this morning and looked the truth square in the face!
There was no doubt in Brannigan’s mind that Hatfield and Hammond/Devil’s River Kid were one and the same. He’d never stood face-to-face with the man before, but he’d sure as hell chased him for a long enough period and had gotten enough fleeting, though clear, glimpses of him through binocular lenses. Now, albeit joltingly unexpected, here he was again.
The only question nagging Brannigan, however, was whether or not he had been recognized in return. His name had most likely been known to the fugitive, so there was one point right there that should have registered. And, if Hammond/Hatfield had a telescope or binoculars of his own, then it seemed reasonable to figure that he had gotten some good looks at Brannigan as well. Yet, if there had been recognition, the man behind the marshal’s badge this morning sure as hell played it cool. Why? He could have easily sent the fat deputy on some bogus errand and then drilled all three prisoners—calling it an attempted escape—thereby immediately and effectively eliminating Brannigan as the threat he posed to revealing the marshal’s outlaw past.
What had prevented him from doing that? Did he truly not recognize Brannigan—or was he calculating a more devious way to react? Or was he merely planning a simple ambush for some remote spot later on?
Brannigan’s thoughts were jerked back to the matter at hand by Wardell saying in a rather sharp tone, “Mr. Brannigan! You’ll forgive me if I say that it seems like your mind is on something else.”
Brannigan sat up a little straighter in his chair. “No, not at all, Mr. Wardell. Just a little wore out from the trail, that’s all . . . Ain’t that right, boys?”
Drake and Nixon, who’d silently been nursing their own glasses of bourbon from where they sat at the same table with Brannigan and Wardell, bobbed their heads agreeably. Smoky Barnett, Wardell’s ramrod, also present on the porch but only just leaning against one of the support posts, looked on with an expression that suggested he was neither convinced nor particularly impressed by the trio.
“From the things you’ve told us,” Brannigan continued in response to Wardell, “you want the rustling of your cattle stopped and you want this unwelcome beaner neighbor of yours, this Valdez, gotten rid of. Ain’t that what it boils down to?”
Wardell scowled. “His name is Van-dez, not Valdez. And when you say ‘gotten rid of ’ . . . I never meant to imply I was advocating murder or anything like that.”
After taking another long pull of his bourbon, Brannigan said, “The way I see it, you’ve got three problems. Number one, you’re losing cattle. Number two, you figure this Vandez hombre and his outfit are the ones skimming them off. Number three, my read is that you neither like nor trust any damn Mexes and you definitely don’t want one as your neighbor. Am I wrong on any of those?”
“Well . . . no, not exactly,” Wardell said, fidgeting slightly under Brannigan’s close scrutiny.
“Okay, then. If all we do is stop the rustling that’s presently taking place but we leave Vandez alone, what does that get you? You still won’t like having him for a neighbor and you still won’t be able to trust that he won’t start up pilfering your herd again at some future point. Right?”
When Wardell didn’t answer right away, Brannigan continued regardless. “So here’s the thing. Me and my pards didn’t ride here to hire on for the long haul. We don’t figure on popping no brush nor branding no cows’ asses. We do what we do—what we know how to do, in order to make the fix permanent-like—then we ride on. Now if that ain’t what you had in mind, if you ain’t ready to hire us and let us operate the way we do, then there’s no hard feelings except you’re out the expense money you sent to bring us here, and we’ll just drift on . . . What do you say?”
Again Wardell took his time responding. When he did, he said, “How about letting Smoky show you to the bunkhouse where you can pick a spot for your gear, wash up, and get ready for lunch at the grub shack? Afterward, he can show you around some. Then, this evening, you’re invited back here for supper and we’ll finalize our arrangement.”
“Sounds good to me,” Brannigan said with a nod. “Done and done.”
* * *
In spite of the aches and pains from the beating he’d endured, Saul Norton felt pretty good. Finally, one of the plans he’d set in motion had panned out like he hoped—hell, had worked out better than he dared hope. He’d not only placed that troublesome damn Larkin in a knot but, with none other than the marshal himself finding the ex-con kneeled over the murder victim, it was so secure there was no imaginable way for him to wiggle out.
Once Hatfield caught up with the unfortunate wretch—which he would, he always did—one of two things was bound to subsequently happen. If Norton’s streak of good luck held, the marshal would be forced to shoot and kill the fleeing man. That would end it once and for all. But even if he only captured Larkin and returned with him as a prisoner, a trial leading to a hanging was sure to follow. With two highly credible witnesses like Freda Draeger and Hatfield serving as witnesses to Larkin’s heinous act just short of actually seeing him plunge the knife into poor, undeserving Myron Poppe, how could any other verdict be reached?
To help whip up the mood of the town in order to not only stifle John Larkin’s “likable” image once and for all but to also help instill the mood for hanging justice, Norton had given a lengthy and impassioned interview to Owen Dutton, the newspaperman. He had painted Larkin in the darkest hues, going all the way back five years, and had praised Myron Poppe as the gentlest of souls driven to anger by Larkin’s coarse treatment of Myron’s equally sweet and gentle wife. “Must a man pay with his life for merely defending the honor of the woman he loves?” Norton had wailed. From Dutton’s track record for heavily embellished style when it came to the articles he wrote, and by the way he was furiously scribbling down this quote and others, Norton knew that his article (s) on this particular matter would set exactly the right tone of sensationalism and outrage that Norton wanted to see grip the town.
All things considered, Norton was practically skipping (aches and all) as he proceeded up the graveled walk leading to the front door of the Emory home where he was still staying to convalesce. He would, of course, be in for a scolding from Victoria for venturing out again—just like when he’d gone out yesterday and fortuitously ended up running into little Poppe for the first time—rather than staying in and resting to aid his healing. But he would counter once again by arguing it was better to stretch his bruised, aching joints instead of letting them stiffen up from too much inactivity. And then, when he broke the horrid news of what had happened to Poppe, all else would be forgotten.
Upon being ushered into the Emory manse by the ever-present Graedon, Norton’s expectations for what came next proved totally accurate. In a matter of minutes, after withstanding Victoria’s scolding and then her gentle murmurings of concern for his battered condition, he’d asked for the rest of the family to join them in the parlor. With the patriarch and the two daughters seated expectantly and Graedon stationed on the perimeter, Norton related (with no small amount of dramatic relish) the shocking news from town—how Myron Poppe was found murdered and how John Larkin was witnessed kneeling over his body, the bloody knife practically still in his hand. Further, how Larkin then attacked the marshal to make good his escape and was even now in desperate flight with Marshal Hatfield hot on his trail.
“How dreadful! How terribly, terribly dreadful,” gasped Victoria.
Jackson Emory pounded a frail fist down on the padded arm of his easy chair and swore with very un-frail gusto. “That double-dealing, betraying bastard! He should have never got out of prison. He should have rotted there!”
Brenda, however, showed quite a different slant on the news, saying, “It shouldn’t surprise me to hear that kind of attitude from all of you—and yet, sadly, it does. When it comes to guilt and punishment, don’t any of you recall a little thing called due process?”
“Due process for that incorrigible dog,” her father hissed, “is a noose around his neck.”
“How can you possibly defend someone who would murder such a kind, sweet soul as Mr. Poppe?” demanded Victoria.
“I’m not defending him,” Brenda argued. “But neither am I willing to leap to the immediate conclusion of condemning him. I know John Larkin. Good God, we all know him! Have you forgotten that? Do you really think he’s capable of cold-bloodedly killing an innocent like Mr. Poppe? There must be some other explanation.”
“If he’s not the killer, then why did he run?” said Norton.
“Precisely because of this kind of reaction!” Brenda shot back. “The rush to condemn and convict him without even hearing his side of what happened.”
“It’s hard to hear someone’s side of an incident when they are running away from it,” Emory pointed out.
“And how can you say you know John?” Victoria challenged. “You were a mere child when he was here before, before he was sent away to prison. If anyone knows him, it’s me. And considering how nearly five years behind bars can change a man, on top of the way he betrayed and hurt me and our family the way he did to get sent away in the first place, I’m sorry but I have no trouble believing he could by now be capable of anything.”
“I spent enough time with him the other night—at a time when, once again, everybody was ready to rush and condemn him for something he didn’t do—to believe he doesn’t have that kind of dark, dangerous side to him,” insisted Brenda.
“And it’s scandalous that you ever consorted in such a manner with that scoundrel,” fumed Emory. “I don’t want to hear no more talk of it!”
Brenda rose to her feet. “I’m sorry that I’m such a scandal and embarrassment to the family. Maybe I, too, should flee and then you can all condemn me and talk about me more freely behind my back!”
“I never said that. I never meant it that way,” her father protested.
“I know what you said, Father. As part of it, you also made clear the kind of talk you refuse to hear. Well, I claim the same right. I shall no longer remain here and listen to this kind of abusive rubbish !” With that, Brenda stormed from the room.
CHAPTER 42
Knowing that Larkin had fled with no advance planning and nothing in the way of supplies except for the horse and rifle he’d gotten from Earl Hines, Bob had ridden out after him with hopes of achieving a relatively quick rundown. As the day wore into afternoon and then edged toward evening, however, the marshal began to sense it wasn’t going to be quite so easy.
It was clear that Larkin was pushing his horse hard and fast, eating up as much ground as he could while he had the lead and for as long as there was daylight. It came as no surprise that he was headed for the mountains. Not the Prophecies, where the gold boom activities meant he might risk running into any number of miners, prospectors, freighters, and the like. He’d have to expect that word was bound to spread pretty fast about the killing, and along with it a description of him. Therefore, his trail veered north and east toward the Shirley Mountains. Inasmuch as no valuable ore had ever been found in the Shirleys, they remained wild and rugged and mostly uninhabited except for a handful of diehard trappers and hunters.
It wouldn’t be hard for a man to obscure his trail and hide himself deep in the Shirleys. If he was savvy enough to build a proper shelter and hunt for meat and other sustenance, he could hole up and survive in there for quite a spell.
Bob had no way of knowing for sure what Larkin had in mind, but the marshal’s guess was that he wasn’t heading into the mountains with the intent of holing up there. He’d either forge on through, using the streams and rocky ground to try and erase his trail, and then likely cut more to the east and head for Deadwood. Or he’d use the same trail-erasing tricks but then double back and strike out south, toward Cheyenne or Laramie, maybe as far as Denver.
No matter what he tried, though, Bob was counting on his tracking skills being up to sticking with him. It was just a matter of time before he closed the gap. And when he did, Larkin’s plans would undergo a sudden change and the only place he’d be headed would be back to Rattlesnake Wells.
* * *
“Any chance you recognize this?”
Maudie Sartain frowned down at the garment Deputy Fred held out before her, wadded in one of his big paws.
The early evening crowd in Bullock’s was moderate in size, and the buzz of conversations being carried on across the room droned at a low pitch. Mike Bullock himself was tending bar, at the moment hunched forward on his elbows about midway down its length, swapping off-color jokes with a pair of derby-hatted drummers. Maudie had been sitting alone at the far end, sipping from a cup of tea and looking somewhat bored when Fred and Earl Hines walked in. She’d perked up at the sight of them, especially Earl, until the question Fred rather bluntly put to her produced instead the thoughtful frown.
“Any particular reason I should recognize some wadded-up piece of cloth?” she asked.
Fred took the wad in both hands and shook it out so that it hung down to its full length and shape, revealing a bright yellow, long-sleeved shirt with rust-colored stains all over it. “This make any difference?”
Maudie couldn’t hide a bit of a smirk as she said, “Okay, I’ll bite. Any particular reason I should recognize a wadded-up old shirt? I will say, though, that the bright color really . . . Wait a minute. Now that I study on it, maybe I do know that shirt.” Her expression turned serious. “I think it used to belong to Merlin Sweeney. You remember, that big colored fella who played accordion in here for a while.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what we were thinking,” said Hines.
“He liked to wear bright colors when he played. I don’t think he had a lot of clothes so he always wore a yellow shirt like that, or a red one.” Maudie suddenly looked concerned. “Where did you find that? Something hasn’t happened to him, has it?”
“We’re not sure,” said Fred. “As far as we know, the only thing that’s happened to him is he left town to go prospecting. We found this shirt stuffed in a gunnysack in the storeroom at the Shirley House where he slept as part of his payment for swamping out the place.”
“The same deal and the same room John Larkin had . . . before he got into trouble,” Hines said. “You see, it was John who told me where to find the shirt. As he was riding off, he hollered over his shoulder, ‘Check the bloody shirt in the storeroom. Show it to the marshal. I think it might be something important’. . . In all the excitement that came next, the murder and all, I forgot about it for a while. But then I remembered and had Fred go with me to see if we could find what he meant.”
“Are those bloodstains?” Maudie asked.
“I think so. I’m pretty sure.” Fred scowled. “What I’m not sure about is what they mean or why Larkin thought they might be important. Hell, we don’t even know for sure if the shirt did belong to that Merlin fella.”
“It’s about the right size. He was a pretty large man,” Maudie said. “And it sure looks like the one he used to . . . Wait a minute, I think I might know a way to tell for sure. Let me see those sleeves, the cuffs.”
She reached and lifted the sleeves one at a time, examining the cuffs.
“What are the cuffs gonna tell you?” Hines wanted to know.
“They’re going to tell me if this was Merlin’s shirt or not . . . And yes! It was. See right here?”
Maudie held up one of the sleeves with the cuff partially rolled back. Fred and H
ines leaned in closer to look. It took a minute to spot it, but when they did, they could see where the symbol of a cross had been stitched with thin white thread on the underside of the cuff right next to the buttonhole.
Lifting his face, Hines said, “How did you know that was there?”
“Merlin explained it to me one time,” Maudie answered. “It was a slow night, we were sitting around talking, and I happened to notice, from the way he sat with one of his legs propped up on a chair, that there was the symbol of a cross stitched on the cuff of his trousers. I asked him about it, thinking it was kind of nice, that he must be a very religious man.”
“Was he?”
Maudie shook her head. “No, not really. Oh, he was a believer certainly, but not in a preachy, Bible-thumping kind of way. The business with the crosses stitched into his clothing, though, was a habit carried over from his childhood days when he was born and raised on a slave plantation. The owner of the plantation, it seems, refused to let his slaves practice any kind of religion. He claimed it led to them feeling uppity and developing an independent streak. So he wouldn’t allow any kind of church services or prayers or anything—and for sure no crosses or other religious symbols.
“So Merlin’s parents and some of the other slaves, they found a way to fool their owner. They took to sewing tiny signs of the cross into their clothing. It kept them connected to the Lord, Merlin’s mama told him, even if they couldn’t pray or sing His praises out loud. It let Him know that they still wanted Him in their lives so He would bless them and look over them. Merlin’s mama instilled that in him very deeply, from an early age. To always keep the sign of the Lord about him so that He would be able to look on and know.” Maudie paused and gave a little shrug. “So that’s what Merlin did, even as a grown man and no longer a slave who had to hide his beliefs. It was a habit that he’d developed and never saw fit to break.”
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