A Dangerous Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “It’s for me, Mother. It’s not mail.” Lisa closed the door and stepped into the parlor where her mother sat by the fire, knitting in her lap.

  Lisa turned the envelope in her hand. “Whomever in the world could it be from?”

  “There’s only way to find out. Open it.”

  The girl tore the envelope open and read the enclosed note.

  Polly York saw the color drain from her daughter’s face and rose from the chair. She lay down her knitting and rustled to Lisa’s side.

  Without saying a word the girl handed over the note.

  Polly read it and let out a little gasp of concern. “What in the world? This is most singular.”

  “Dare we choose to ignore it?” Lisa asked.

  “With all the terrible things that have been happening in this town? I think not. The danger to your father’s life may be of the greatest moment.”

  “Who is CMW, I wonder,” Lisa said. “I don’t recognize the initials.”

  “I have no idea,” Polly said. “Perhaps a stranger in town, even a law officer.”

  “Then I must go, Mother. I can’t ignore this missive.”

  “Then your father will accompany you with his revolver.”

  Lisa shook her head. “The note says to come alone.”

  “No, it’s far too dangerous.”

  “Mother, we’re to meet at seven o’clock on the boardwalk, not midnight. How dangerous can it be?”

  “The night is winter dark at that time and most, if not all, of the stores shutter early because of the snow,” Polly said. “You could find yourself quite alone.”

  “There will still be people around, and the saloon doesn’t close, remember?”

  “We’ll let your father decide.”

  “No, don’t tell him. I’ve no wish to worry him unnecessarily. This could be nothing, perhaps even a prank. Besides, I have the brand new Remington derringer Father gave me for my birthday. I can take care of myself.”

  “Lisa, I just don’t like the idea of you going alone,” Polly said, her face creased in worry. “And those two dreadful men who came to the house last night are still in town. They could—”

  “If Father’s life is really in danger, it’s worth the risk, any risk.” Lisa insisted. She frowned and her chin was determined, signs her mother knew only too well.

  “I’ll worry about you the whole time you’re gone,” Polly said.

  Lisa smiled. “Mother, I’m a big girl now. Trust me, I’ll be just fine.”

  Fortified with a couple of shots of brandy from the bottle in his room, Bill Longley climbed the hill to Clotilde Wainright’s mansion. As the sky had predicted, icy sleet slanted in a slashing wind and the way underfoot was slick, muddy, and treacherous.

  Cheng opened the door to Longley’s knock and with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm ushered the gunman into the parlor where he was joined a couple of minutes later by Clotilde.

  “Not bad news, I hope.” Her beautiful eyes searched Longley’s face. “Take a seat by the fire.”

  “A change of plan,” the gunman said. “That’s all.”

  “I don’t like changes of plan, Bill.”

  “For your own protection, Clotilde. All I need from you is a horse for the girl to ride and another with supplies for three days, including a shelter.”

  “Cheng will supply you with a canvas tarp and whatever else you need for the trail. I also have a horse for the girl.” The woman’s eyes burned with green fire. “Your change of plan is for my own protection? I hardly knew you cared, Bill.”

  “It’s too risky to pick up the girl here,” Longley said. “There will be a hue and cry and if they see that you’re involved . . . well, you know what might happen. Remember after the vigilantes hung me? Well, the Comanche Crossing vigilantes could come after you with a rope.”

  “I remember the day you were hanged very well, Bill. Now tell me of your new plan.”

  Irritated at the woman’s memory for things he’d rather forget, Longley told her.

  “You’ll be busy tonight and tomorrow,” Clotilde said. “First a kidnapping and then a bank robbery. My, my.”

  “Booker and me can handle it,” Longley said.

  The woman handed him a glass of brandy. “Who is the girl? Or dare I ask?”

  “Lisa York.”

  “The mayor’s pretty little daughter?”

  “None other.”

  Clotilde jolted back in her chair, surprised. After a few moments, she clapped her hands and then held them clasped to her breast. “Brava!” she exclaimed. “How perfectly, wonderfully droll.”

  Longley grinned. “I thought you might like that, Clotilde.”

  “Oh, I do! The little stuck-up baggage is an excellent subject, such a young, nubile body. Professor Van Dorn will be so pleased.”

  “Clotilde, I plan to knock her out with one of Cheng’s potions and hide her on the trail until we pick her up tomorrow morning. She could freeze to death overnight.”

  “No matter. A little frost will keep the body fresher longer.” Clotilde nodded her permission for Longley’s cigar and then she said, “This matter is of the utmost importance, Bill. I’m doing it for Professor as a personal favor.”

  “You sold stiffs to him in the past?”

  “A few, but none of yours. Dr. Cheng used most of those for his own study. No need to explain away the bullet holes, you see.”

  “I didn’t know Cheng was a real pill roller,” Longley said. “I thought you just called him Doc for some strange reason.”

  “He was a quite famous surgeon in his native China. My husband and I helped Dr. Cheng obtain bodies which led to our . . . ah . . . difficulties.”

  “Your husband’s hanging among others,” Longley said.

  “Quite,” Clotilde said, icing the word. She picked up the brandy by her chair and refilled Longley’s glass.

  The wind drove sleet past the windows and the ravaged morning was gloomy as night. A withered leaf fluttered against a pane like a trapped brown bird.

  “Professor Van Dorn is currently writing a book that his publisher believes will be the definitive work on the female anatomy and will make him famous in this country and abroad. As part of the illustrations for his work, he will dissect the York girl’s body and make a series of painstakingly accurate drawing of its various parts, internal and external.” Clotilde’s face took on a serious expression. “Note my emphasis on the word accurate. To achieve such results the subject’s carcass must bear not even a hint of corruption.”

  Longley smiled. “So the professor is an artist as well as a doctor.”

  “Is not any fine surgeon an artist? Why should you sound so surprised?”

  Longley smiled. “How much artistry does it take to saw a man’s leg off?”

  “Bill,” Clotilde said, “how little you know.”

  “Well, to sum it up—I rob the bank, take the girl to Santa Fe, and then head for your place on the Sabine.” Longley grinned. “We had good times there, Clotilde.”

  “No, we didn’t.” The woman rose to her feet. “I’ll wrap up my business here and join you in Louisiana as soon as I can.”

  “Maybe we can get back into the business again, Clotilde,” Longley said. “I can provide plenty of bodies over that way.”

  “No, I’m done. Lisa York is the last and then I’ll return to my fight to preserve our American Indian culture.”

  “Do you think anyone will thank you for that?”

  “Perhaps not. The Indians are ungrateful children, I know. But I will persevere in my endeavors. And there’s one more thing before you leave.”

  Longley drained his glass then stood.

  Clotilde answered the question on his face. “That man Sullivan is getting way too close, as I feared he might. Hong-li tried to kill him twice and failed each time.”

  Startled, Longley said, “Hong-li? Is that . . . thing still alive?”

  “He’s not a thing. He’s a human being who left the womb not yet fully forme
d and, for some reason known only to the gods, grew to a monstrous size. You heard what happened in the night?”

  “I heard shots. Figured somebody was taking pots at a coyote.”

  “Sullivan fired those shots. My dog got too close to him. There’s more.”

  “Then tell it,” Longley said.

  “Dr. Cheng wanted the stage coach driver’s body for his own research, but he and Ransom ran into trouble. The undertaker and another man came into the office and Hong-li killed them both with the Japanese sword he carries.”

  “And what does this have to do with Sullivan?”

  “He was also nosing around the undertaker’s place. He wants to find the body of an outlaw he killed and I believe he thinks I had something to do with its disappearance.”

  Longley smiled. “And you did, Clotilde. You and Cheng did some grave robbing on your own and Crow Wallace was among them.”

  “The men were dead. That’s not a crime, or at least it shouldn’t be. The bodies advanced Dr. Cheng’s knowledge by leaps and bounds and he will use that knowledge for the good of everyone. Frank Harm, the sheriff, had a cancer in his belly and Dr. Cheng removed it. He told me if the subject had been still alive he would have survived the surgery and lived on for many years.”

  “Why don’t you give Crow Wallace’s body to Sullivan, Clotilde?” Longley suggested.

  “It’s cut up and buried, like the others. Wallace, if that was the outlaw’s name, would be unrecognizable by now.”

  “Tam Sullivan is a bounty hunter who doesn’t give a damn about anybody or anything. You’ve nothing to fear from him. He’ll drift soon.”

  “Perhaps I am overreacting, but I think you should kill him before you leave just to make sure,” Clotilde said.

  Longley nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

  “No, I think we’ve covered it. Just get that girl and don’t fail me.”

  Longley grinned. “Trust me, Clotilde. Lisa York’s female parts are as good as in the professor’s book already.”

  “Then I’ll see you in Louisiana.”

  “Just like old times, huh?”

  Clotilde smiled but said nothing.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Sullivan’s Temptation

  “He’s not going to pull through, Mr. Sullivan. The punishment he took was just too severe for such a frail little body.” Dr. Peter Harvey put his hand on Sullivan’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. “I’m real sorry.”

  Sullivan wanted to say that the little runt meant nothing to him and that all Posey had ever done was to deny him his reward money. But he couldn’t say those things, not with any sincerity. Instead, he found himself saying, “He’s a Butterfield man, you know.”

  Harvey nodded. “Yes, he is, and a genuine frontier hero. The whole town will mourn his passing.”

  “Can I see him?” Sullivan asked.

  “Yes, you can. But he won’t know you’re there.”

  Sullivan stepped into the bedroom.

  Because of the somberness of the morning, a single oil lamp burned and cast shadows, as deep and dark as those that pooled in Ebenezer Posey’s face. The little man’s breathing was so quiet it was lost in the greater sound of the lamenting wind.

  “Ebenezer, can you hear me? It’s Sullivan.”

  Posey lay still, his face like chiseled stone.

  “He’s far gone,” Harvey said. “He’s probably already made the acquaintance of the death angel.”

  Sullivan turned and looked at the doc. “How long?”

  “He’ll be dead before sundown.”

  Sullivan smiled slightly. “There’s no sun to go down, Doc.” He took off his glove and laid the backs of his fingers on Posey’s forehead. “He’s cold.”

  “Yes. It’s a step along his way,” Harvey said.

  Sullivan stood in silence for a few moments, staring down at Posey. “I’ll come back.” Then, after thinking about it, added, “Before sundown.”

  On Sullivan’s way out the door, Dr. Harvey stopped him and dropped the key of Posey’s hotel room into his hand. “You’ll need that. He has no kin or friends in town.”

  “I’ll take care of his stuff.” Sullivan thought about the money. There was a lot of it.

  “My wife said Ebenezer cried out last night,” Harvey said. “I didn’t hear him, but she told me he clearly said the word monstrous. What on earth did he mean?”

  “I guess it was his opinion on what happened to him,” Sullivan said. “Posey used words like that. Hell, maybe he was talking about me.”

  Harvey didn’t contradict that last. “I suppose such could be the case. But it’s strange all the same.”

  Sullivan nodded. “Sometimes I think the whole world is strange and getting stranger all the time, Doc.”

  Tam Sullivan returned to the hotel and went directly to Posey’s room. The maid had neatly folded the little man’s nightgown and sleeping cap and laid them at the bottom of the bed. The gloomy morning cast feeble light into the room, but the air was chilly and damp, and smelled musty, a cold welcome for any visitor.

  Sullivan picked up Posey’s carpetbag and returned to his own room. As he’d expected, his thirty-six hundred dollar reward was there, stuffed under a clean shirt, socks, and underwear. The stack of bills was bound with a paper band that bore the Butterfield Stage Co. stamp.

  Sullivan riffled through the bills, money that was rightfully his. He could take it and the money left from the stage robbery and hell, even the gold watch.

  “You’ve earned it, Tam,” whispered the devil on his shoulder. “Let Posey take the blame. He’s a dead man, anyway.”

  Sullivan let the money drop into the bag. He’d pushed Ebenezer beyond his limits and in the end was responsible for his death.

  He thought about destroying the man’s memory, leaving his wife only a legacy of shame. Once the word got around that her husband was a thief, how many pairs of bloomers would she sell?

  Sullivan shook his head. There was only one trail to take. “Damn it, Ebenezer, you’ve destroyed me. I’ll never be the same man again.”

  He took what was left of the stage robbery money and the gold watch from his saddlebags, put them in the carpetbag, and buckled the straps, vowing to himself that he wouldn’t see it open again until he carried it into the Butterfield stage office in Santa Fe.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  A Favor Asked—and Refused

  As he toed the carpetbag under the bed, a timid knock on his door startled Sullivan. His hand instinctively dropped to his gun. “Who is it?”

  A slight pause for breath, then, “It’s Polly York. The mayor’s wife.”

  Sullivan opened the door. “Come in . . . if you don’t mind entering a gentleman’s quarters unaccompanied.”

  Polly’s face was cool and composed. “I’m sure I will face no impropriety, Mr. Sullivan.” The woman walked past him into the room. Her bonnet and cape were damp from sleet and her ankle boots left traces of mud on the floor.

  Sullivan saw concern in her eyes as he provided her with a chair. He sat on the corner of the bed and waited for her to speak.

  When she did, her voice was firm and calm, but the fingers of the gloved hands on her lap tied themselves in knots. “Earlier this morning, a most singular event disturbed the tranquility of my home, Mr. Sullivan, when my daughter received a most alarming communication. This was no billet-doux, but a warning that the life of my husband was in the greatest danger.”

  “Who sent it?” Sullivan asked immediately.

  “We don’t know. It came from a gentleman, the delivery boy told Lisa, and it was signed CMW.”

  Sullivan shook his head. “Doesn’t strike a chord with me,” he said, wondering why the hell the woman had come to see him, of all people.

  Polly untangled her fingers and opened her purse. She passed a piece of folded paper to him. “Please read it.”

  He scanned the note, meticulously penned in schoolboy copperplate, nodded and passed it back to the woman.
“Mrs. York, I don’t see—”

  “What you can do to help me?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Lisa insists on meeting CMW alone,” Polly said. “She doesn’t want to unnecessarily alarm her father, and as for Sheriff Bowman, well . . . his very, dare I say, large presence might scare off the informant.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” Sullivan questioned, surprised.

  “Guard my daughter with your gun, at a discreet distance of course.”

  Sullivan smiled, genuinely puzzled. “I don’t get it, Mrs. York. Why me?”

  “Because you have the reputation of being a skilled and experienced gunman and as far as I can tell you have a trustworthy face.”

  Sullivan took the double-barreled compliment in silence. Then he said, “Mrs. York, do you figure I owe you a favor?”

  “You owe me nothing, Mr. Sullivan. Or my daughter.”

  “So why ask me?”

  “Because you are the only one who can change what this town has become. Men murdered, bodies ripped from their graves, notorious outlaws pressing their suit on my daughter, and talk of murderous savages in the hills.” Mrs. York composed herself. “Comanche Crossing used to be a nice place to live, Mr. Sullivan. No longer. My daughter can’t go alone to that meeting tonight. It’s just not safe.”

  “If he choses, Buck Bowman can be discreet, I fancy,” Sullivan said.

  Polly York rose to her feet. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Sullivan.”

  Sullivan opened the door for the woman and she left, stiff-backed as she stepped into the hallway.

  Closing the door, he stepped to the window and stared into the day, stores, houses, and the surrounding hills shadowed as though draped in mourning for the death of the light.

  Ebenezer Posey was dead when Tam Sullivan returned at the noon hour to the doctor’s office.

  “He took his last breath ten minutes ago,” Dr. Peter Harvey said. “To the very end, he fought a gallant fight.”

  “I hardly knew him.” Sullivan pulled up the sheet over the little man’s head and smiled. “I liked him though.”