A Dangerous Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “It’s a reckoning, long overdue. I’ll handle it.”

  “You’d better tell me about it,” Bowman said.

  Sullivan took a drink of his beer. “If tonight pans out like I think it will, you’ll know soon enough.”

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” the sheriff said. “If I’m pushed to it, I’ll lock you up to keep you off the street.”

  “No, Buck, you’re not locking me up. Not today or on any other day.”

  Until that moment, Bowman had considered Tam Sullivan a bumbling fool, a wannabe hardcase obsessed by a dead man, boasting an inflated reputation he knew the man didn’t deserve.

  But when he looked into the sky blue hell of Sullivan’s eyes he knew he was wrong.

  The man was a killer.

  He was another Bill Longley, saved only by a thin veneer of humanity and a respect for the law that the gunman did not possess.

  Sullivan brushed away a cracker crumb from his great cavalry mustache and pushed himself away from the bar. “You still got that scattergun, Buck?”

  “Sure do and she’s loaded for bear.”

  “Then I’ll come for you when I need you,” Sullivan said.

  Bowman said, “Wait. Let’s talk about this.”

  But Sullivan stepped toward the door and for the first time in days the spurs on his heels chimed.

  Half-a-dozen men were in the saloon, but the one at the end of the bar was the most talkative. As Sullivan passed him, he said, “Hey, mister, is there really evil in Comanche Crossing, devils and ha’nts an’ sich?”

  “More than you know,” Sullivan answered.

  He returned to his hotel room and, using .36 caliber paper cartridges, loaded the 1861 Colt Navy he’d taken from his saddlebags. He laid the revolver beside his gun belt on the bed then pulled a chair to the window.

  For a while, he gazed into the storm-torn street.

  On the opposite boardwalk, a plump matron wrapped in a hooded cape dragged along a small, reluctant dog. A youth stepped out of the general store holding a pair of new boots tied together by the laces. A mule-drawn wagon passed, its precious cargo of swaying Ceylon tea chests covered by a canvas tarp.

  Sullivan saw but paid little heed, his mind working. He was convinced the pale, distorted face he’d glimpsed at an upper window following his visit to Clotilde Wainright was Hong-li. Man, beast, or whatever species, he was Clotilde Davenport’s creature, and she knew he was likely to kill anyone who got in his way.

  Maybe she didn’t sanction the murders of Ebenezer Posey and Hogan Strike but she was responsible.

  Sullivan was sure Hong-li had taken that pot at him on his way to the railroad station and his was the grotesque, hunchbacked form of the bushwhacker he’d winged in the graveyard. His bullet had stung the man and he would still bear a scar.

  And what of Bill Longley?

  He’d made his reputation as a Texas bad man by killing blacks and terrified rubes. Seemed he’d be in way over his head dealing with a cold, calculating woman like Clotilde Wainright. Unless . . . it was her . . . or one of her associates . . . who’d saved his life when he got half hung down to Karnes County.

  Almost as soon as Sullivan thought it, he dismissed that possibility. Bill had been strung up for killing a black soldier and horse theft.

  Sullivan continued thinking, trying to connect Longley and Lady Wainright. Why would she, an English aristocrat, go out of her way to save the life of a common criminal?

  Suddenly, the answer was obvious. Because she needed him.

  But not for herself. For her husband. For Dr. Cheng.

  Musing on that possibility, Sullivan remembered what Buck Bowman had said about Bill Longley killing sixty or seventy men. He’d dismissed that figure as typical saloon gossip exaggeration, but suppose it was true—which raised another question . . . or two. In the past, had Longley provided freshly murdered bodies for Cheng’s research . . . and was he still supplying them from the town graveyard?

  Sullivan knew he was close to the answer.

  A man like Longley, if he’d run out of bodies, could easily kill scores of unarmed blacks, blanket Indians, and Mexicans to supply Cheng’s endless need for fresh cadavers.

  That was why Clotilde Wainright had saved Longley’s life—to ensure that her husband’s research would not be interrupted, an activity she considered vital to the advancement of medical science.

  Sullivan realized his own obsessed hunt for the last remains of Crow Wallace had blinded him to the reality of what was happening in Comanche Crossing. Unfortunately, it had taken the death of Ebenezer Posey to open his eyes.

  He mentally flagellated himself for that.

  Right there and then, he vowed to make amends and save what little was left of his integrity . . . and his manhood.

  He shook his head and focused on the street. Still daylight.

  Seven o’clock, after darkness fell.

  That’s when Tam Sullivan would bring about the reckoning.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Tate’s Fatal Decision

  Booker Tate left the packhorse and spare mount in an arroyo close to Black Mesa, the country around him wild, windswept, and achingly lonely.

  He made his way back to Comanche Crossing, riding through driving snow and a day as gray as mist on a lake. Chilled to the bone, the lean cloth of his mackinaw giving him little protection, Tate thought of Miss Pretty.

  She was a delicate little thing, unused to rough men and savage weather, and her chances of living through just one night on the trail were slim.

  He had done what Bill had asked, he’d stashed the horses, but Lisa York would not leave Comanche Crossing, at least not that night.

  His snow-spattered face grim, he knew he would have it out with Bill.

  But Bill is a reasonable man. Certainly—Tate didn’t finish that thought.

  Bill Longley was not a reasonable man. He was a stone cold killer and unbending. As surely as night follows day, Miss Pretty’s fate would be decided by the gun.

  Tate accepted that fact and understood its implications.

  “Who rides out on a day like this?” Clem Weaver said, his face sour.

  “I do.” Tate dismounted. “You got coffee in the pot?”

  The livery man nodded. “It’s on the bile. I’ll get you a cup.”

  “Rub down my hoss and feed him some oats as soon as I’ve had coffee,” Tate ordered. “And don’t skimp. I want him ready to ride again in a couple hours.”

  Weaver poured a smoking cup and handed it to Tate. He waited a few moments until the big man had swallowed some and thawed out a little before saying, “Your friend Longley bought Crow Wallace’s hoss, paid cash on the barrelhead, too. Says he’s riding tonight.”

  Tate shrugged. “Bill has some strange notions sometimes and I follow along.”

  “Well, rather him than me,” Weaver said. “A man could freeze to death out there on the trail, if’n the Apaches don’t get him first.” The liveryman’s smile was wicked. “Then a man could roast to death instead, huh?”

  Tate drained his coffee cup and made no answer, his face strained and solemn.

  Since the red-haired gunman seemed in no mood for small talk, Weaver said, “I’ll see to your hoss.”

  Still silent, Tate rose to his feet and walked out of the stable.

  Two prosperous-looking men in greatcoats and mufflers stood on the boardwalk and discussed the sluggish, muddy river that was the street. As Tate passed he heard one of the men say, “Shell rock won’t work.”

  “Then what will?” his plump companion asked.

  “I don’t know. But I told the mayor we can’t ever go through this again.”

  “There has to be a solution.”

  “Drain it like a swamp, I reckon.”

  Both men laughed and walked on their separate ways.

  Booker Tate heard and was deeply envious. Instead of facing death when the clock struck seven, he could be like those men, prosperous burghers disc
ussing nothing more urgent than mud in the street. He mulled that over, his feeble brain working hard. Once he wed Miss Pretty, he could leave the violent, hunted outlaw life behind and settle down right in Comanche Crossing and perhaps turn his hand to trade. He figured he might prosper in the construction business, since even as a boy he’d been good with his hands, building things, like.

  Smiling to himself, Tate considered that an excellent plan. He’d build a nice little house where Miss Pretty would be happy. It would have extry rooms for the young’uns and maybe a guest cottage for Mr. and Mrs. York when they came to visit.

  The mind pictures Tate saw, all with Lisa York center stage, were bathed in a golden glow—a heavenly light that would always, miraculously, be there after he and Miss Pretty got hitched.

  As he entered the hotel and his muddy boots left stains on the stair carpet, Booker Tate was madly in love, his Miss Pretty the entire focus of his being.

  “So if she dies, she dies. All we have to do is deliver a body to Santa Fe. Dead or alive, it makes no difference.” Longley stared ice-hard at Tate. “Not going soft on me, are you? It’s too late at this stage of the game.”

  Tate was silent for a while, dredging for the right words. “Bill, I want to marry Miss Pretty.”

  “Marry her! Why, she’d leave you the first chance she got, or kill you in your sleep. A girl like that isn’t for a wild animal like you, Booker.”

  “But you said you wanted us to get hitched, Bill. You told me that.”

  “Because the thought of it amused me. Well, it doesn’t amuse me any longer. We grab the York girl tonight and there’s an end to it.”

  “I could become a carpenter,” Tate said. “Keep Miss Pretty at home.”

  “Yeah, until the night you get drunk and kill a man. Then it’s all over.” Longley smirked. “Booker, you’re an idiot.”

  Tate’s face was set and stubborn, enamored of his impossible dream.

  Longley read the expression. “All right, Booker. We’ll talk about this after we grab the girl. Hell, take her to Louisiana with you, marry her there.”

  Tate’s face brightened and he smiled. “Do you mean that, Bill?”

  “Sure I mean it. I’m not going to break your heart, Booker.” But I’m going to kill you.

  “Bill, you’re true blue and a white man,” Tate said.

  “Hey, that’s what friends are for, Booker. We’ll build the girl a nice big fire in a sheltered spot come tomorrow morning, then go rob the bank. After that, we’re Louisiana bound, all three of us.”

  “She’ll need plenty of wood if we’re gone for a few hours,” Tate said.

  Longley played along. “Yeah, we’ll leave her a woodpile real close.”

  “Dry, Bill. It’s got to be dry.”

  “Uh-huh. Dry wood it is.” Longley rose and stepped to the window.

  The day had fled. The long night and darkness lay on Comanche Crossing. The snow had stopped, and the lighted stores on both sides of the street angled rectangles of amber light onto the boardwalks.

  That was not entirely to his liking. What had to be done would be better accomplished in gloom.

  But there were still two hours until seven. Many of the stores would close by then for lack of customers, especially when the snow started again as the somber night promised.

  “Me and Miss Pretty could build a house right on the Sabine,” Tate said.

  Without turning, Longley nodded again. “Sure thing, Booker. You and Lady Wainright could be neighbors. Lisa York would like that.”

  “Lisa Tate, Bill. She’d be my wife by then.”

  “Oh yeah. I plumb forgot.” Longley simply smiled.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Night Riders

  “Seems like everybody is riding this evening.” Clem Weaver shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me.”

  “Besides myself, who else?” Tam Sullivan asked.

  “Well, that Booker Tate feller came in on a played out hoss, said he was just riding but will go out again. Then Bill Longley wants his mount saddled and ready before seven. And now you. All you Texans hauling your freight at the same time, huh?”

  “I don’t know about them other two, but I plan to stay close to town,” Sullivan said. Alarm bells rang in his head. He was sure it was Longley who’d sent the note to Lisa York. He hadn’t yet figured the why of it, unless it was a clear-cut case of abduction followed by a ransom demand.

  By the standards of Comanche Crossing, the mayor was a wealthy man and he’d pay a pile of money to get his daughter back unharmed.

  It was Bill Longley’s kind of business. He was real good at it.

  “If’n you’re staying close to town, then why do you need your hoss?” Weaver questioned.

  “Don’t ask questions, Clem. You might get answers you don’t want to hear.”

  The liveryman hunched his shoulders and shook his hands in the air. “You’re right. Don’t tell me nothing. I don’t want to meddle in the affairs of Texas draw fighters. It ain’t healthy.”

  “Don’t tell Longley I was here, understand?” Sullivan said.

  “Hell, I can’t see you. Are you here?” Weaver said, looking around him in the exaggerated manner of a blind man.

  Sullivan smiled. “You got it, Clem.” He thought for a few moments. “Longley lost his buckskin. You loaning him a horse?”

  “Naw. I sold him Crow’s mount. The gray you brung in.”

  Sullivan was instantly suspicious. “How much did you get for it?”

  “Two hunnerd, cash.”

  “You only gave me a hundred,” Sullivan admonished.

  Weaver’s smile was sly. “It’s called business, young feller. Profit and loss. Your loss, my profit.”

  “You’ll get hung fer a horse thief one day, depend on it,” Sullivan said.

  “Naw, Bill Longley will. I sold the gray to him too cheap.”

  “Where is Lisa?” John York asked as he entered the parlor of his home.

  His wife looked up from her knitting. She’d expected the question. “She decided to take a stroll in the snow.” Her reply was at least a half-truth, she told herself.

  York poured himself a brandy and sat by the fire. “Odd. She’s never done that before.”

  “Young people do get restless when they’re stuck inside by weather. She may visit a friend.”

  “Did she wrap up warm? It’s freezing cold out,” York said.

  “Yes. She’s wearing her furred cloak.” Polly smiled at her husband. “Don’t worry, John. She’ll be all right.”

  But Polly was worried.

  She was worried sick.

  “I’m real worried about Miss Pretty,” Tate said. “It’s cold tonight.”

  Longley turned from the window. “She’ll be just fine, Booker. You can hug her close when we get on the trail. Keep her cozy, like.”

  Tate smiled.

  “I’m gonna enjoy that, Bill. Me and Miss Pretty snugglin’ up by the campfire and talking about out future plans an’ all.”

  “You’re a real romantic, Booker,” Longley said. “You remind me of Bill Scrier, the feller I killed down to Bell County that time. We’d a running horseback fight and he took thirteen rifle and pistol shots before he went down.”

  “How come I remind you of him?” Tate asked.

  “Because he was a romantic like you. He wanted to live real bad so he could marry a gal he was soft on. Damn him, he was a hard man to kill.” Longley shouldered into his fur coat and grinned.

  “You’re a lover, Booker, just like Scrier.”

  “I sure hope Miss Pretty thinks so,” Tate said.

  “Well, I reckon you are,” Longley said. “Just like Bill Scrier.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Miss Pretty’s Deadly Mistake

  It was fifteen minutes till seven when Tam Sullivan tied his horse to the handle of an outhouse behind the general store, locked and shuttered since Tom Archer’s death. He stepped along a close passageway too narrow to be an alley between the
store and another, and standing in shadow, looked into the street.

  Snow fell under the vast, black dome of the night and the street reminded him of a bog, moving in the wind as though infested by crawling, grinning things. The air smelled of open coffins.

  His view was where the opposite boardwalk ended. As yet there was no sign of Longley or Lisa York.

  Sullivan opened his coat, clearing the gun on his hip and the .36 in his waistband. The German prince’s yellow muffler hung loosely around his neck.

  Time ticked past as he slowly numbed in the cold.

  Five minutes later, he thought he saw a shadow of movement on the boardwalk. A snow flurry momentarily obscured his view, but when it cleared, he saw Longley, clad in his ankle-length fur coat, step to the edge of the walk and look around him. Tate joined him after a few moments, but Longley irritably waved him back into the darkness.

  The perverse north wind chose to blow full force down the passageway. It chilled Sullivan to the bone and his wounded shoulder ached. He removed the glove from his frozen gun hand. Once in the flannel-lined pocket of his coat, he worked his fingers, trying to keep stiffness at bay.

  His plan was to watch for Lisa York and grab her before she crossed the street.

  Longley might shoot or he might not. Either way, Sullivan was mentally prepared for a gunfight, though exchanging revolver shots across the breadth of the street in darkness would be a mighty uncertain undertaking.

  He and Longley were up close and personal duelists . . . not long-distance marksmen.

  The click-click-click of a woman’s high-heeled boots rose above the sigh of the wind.

  Sullivan braced himself. As soon as the girl was close enough, he’d leap out and seize her. He figured she would scream blue murder, of course, and bring folks running, but at least Longley’s plan would be foiled.

  Or so Sullivan thought.

  The trouble was, Lisa stepped along on the opposite boardwalk.

  Sullivan cursed under his breath. Why had she gone and done that?

  Actually, he knew why. Some of the storeowners had placed wooden boards across the mud as makeshift street bridges for the convenience of their customers. Most had sunk without a trace, but Lisa had taken one that still floated.