The marshal stepped closer to McCluskey and prodded him with the shotgun.
“Be careful, Marshal,” Luke warned. “He’s as fast and tricky as a snake.”
“I know what I’m doing. He won’t be the first outlaw I’ve locked up, you know.” But the lawman backed off a couple steps before he went on. “All right, McCluskey, get up. You’re going to jail.”
McCluskey groaned again and looked bleary-eyed at Luke. “Damn. You just about busted my head open,” he complained.
“That’s right,” Luke said. “You’re lucky your brains are still inside your skull. Don’t give us any trouble and maybe they’ll stay there.”
The marshal covered McCluskey with the Greener and Luke rested his right hand on the butt of a Remington as McCluskey climbed unsteadily to his feet.
“Let’s go,” the marshal said as he backed toward the door.
“Damn it. Won’t you even let me put my pants on?” McCluskey begged. “You can’t mean to parade me through town like this!”
The marshal hesitated, shrugged, and looked at Luke, who picked up McCluskey’s denim trousers from where they had been thrown over the back of a chair, most likely the previous night while he and Delia Bradley were caught up in the throes of passion.
Luke checked the pockets and didn’t find any weapons, only a few coins and a lucky elk’s tooth—said luck having run out for McCluskey. He tossed the garment to the outlaw, who pulled it on.
“How about my boots?” McCluskey asked.
The marshal shook his head. “I’ve already given you the only break I’m going to. Get moving and keep your mouth shut.”
With the lawman in front of McCluskey and Luke behind, they took the owlhoot out of the hotel room and down the stairs to the lobby. Quite a few people were gathered there. From the looks of them, some were guests in the hotel and others were citizens of Rimrock. They had all turned out to see what the shooting on the second floor was about. They watched with avid interest as Luke and the marshal took McCluskey out of the hotel.
Luke looked at them as he passed by. Probably would be a good turnout in Cheyenne, too, when the law hanged Frank McCluskey for his crimes.
CHAPTER 3
The marshal’s name was Warren Elliott and he had been the law in Rimrock for the past five years, he explained to Luke as he poured coffee from a battered old pot keeping warm on a potbellied stove. “I’d say McCluskey is the worst renegade I’ve had locked up in all that time.” He motioned with his tin cup toward the stack of half a dozen wanted posters he had pulled out from the pile in the bottom drawer of his desk. All of them offered rewards for the capture of the notorious bandit and killer Frank McCluskey.
“He’ll get what’s coming to him,” Luke promised. “All I have to do is get him to Cheyenne.”
Elliott scratched at his jaw. “Have you given any thought to how you’re gonna do that?”
“I suppose I’ll put him in handcuffs, tie him on a horse, and lead him to his appointment with the hangman,” Luke said with a shrug.
“How’s his gang going to feel about that?”
Luke sank down on the old sofa positioned against the front wall of the marshal’s office and cocked his right ankle on his left knee. “McCluskey doesn’t have a gang right now,” he explained. “He was riding with four or five men, but the others got shot up and captured when they tried to hit the bank in Rock Springs about a week and a half ago. McCluskey was the only one of the bunch who got away. He should have known right then that his luck was starting to turn.”
Elliott grunted. “If he got away, I reckon he still had at least a little luck on his side.”
“But he got away empty-handed and with nobody to back his play anymore. It was only a matter of time until somebody nabbed him.”
“And that somebody was you.” Elliott fanned out the wanted posters. “You’re gonna collect . . . let’s see”—he added on his fingers—“four, five, six thousand dollars, looks like.” He whistled. “That’s a mighty good reward.”
Not so good when you considered how often he had to risk his life to collect that kind of money. But Luke supposed that as a small-town badge-toter, Marshal Elliott sometimes had to risk his life, too—and for a lot smaller payday.
“If I was you,” the lawman mused, “I think I’d take McCluskey over to Rattlesnake Wells.”
Luke frowned. “I think I’ve heard of the place. Just a wide place in the trail, from what I recall. Why would I take McCluskey there?”
“You haven’t been around these parts for a while, have you?”
“No, not really.”
“Rattlesnake Wells is a lot more than a wide place in the trail now,” Elliott said. “There was a gold strike up in the Prophecy Mountains not far from there, and Rattlesnake Wells turned into a boomtown. Some mining tycoon name of Browning built a spur line railroad just to haul out the ore.”
Luke thought he saw what the marshal was getting at. “Does that spur line connect up with the Union Pacific?”
“Yep. And once you get to the Union Pacific, it’s a straight shot over east to Cheyenne. You can be there in about three days from now, countin’ the time it’ll take you from here to Rattlesnake Wells, instead of the week or more it’d take you to ride all the way, especially as slow as you’d have to move with a dangerous prisoner.”
Luke liked the sound of that. The less time he had to spend in McCluskey’s company, the better. Not to mention the fact that he would collect the bounty on the outlaw a few days sooner, as well. It never hurt to speed up the money.
“There’s a good livery stable and wagon yard in Rattlesnake Wells,” Elliott continued. “Run by a fella name of Joe Peterson. You could leave your horse there for a few days while you take McCluskey over to Cheyenne, then come back for him.”
“That’s a good idea, and I appreciate the advice, Marshal.” Luke frowned slightly. “What about that Bradley woman? Is she liable to cause any more trouble?”
“Delia?” Elliott shook his head. “I doubt it. She may be sweet on McCluskey right now, but there’s no profit in her being stubborn about it. Did you ever know a soiled dove who was interested in anything except money, when you got right down to it?”
“Not many,” Luke admitted. “Maybe one or two.”
“Well, there’s nothin’ special about Delia Bradley. You don’t have to worry about her anymore, Jensen. I’d bet a hat on that.”
Luke was a pretty good judge of jails, and the one in Rimrock looked solid to him. He didn’t see any way McCluskey could break out, and Marshal Elliott was too canny to be taken in by any tricks that the outlaw might try to pull. Luke decided it was safe enough to get a good night’s sleep at the hotel and start out for Rattlesnake Wells early the next morning.
When he checked in, he asked the clerk, “Nobody was hurt in all that shooting a while ago, were they?”
“No, but I’ve got some bullet holes in the walls to patch,” the man groused. “Rimrock’s a pretty peaceful town. We’re not used to so much commotion.”
“It wasn’t my idea for McCluskey to shoot up the place.” Luke started to add that the clerk had already collected a sawbuck for his trouble but then decided to be generous. He slid another silver dollar across the counter, in addition to what he had already paid for the room. “That’ll buy some plaster.”
Yeah, he thought as he carried his Winchester and war bag upstairs to Room Twelve, he was definitely getting soft in his old age.
He dumped the rifle and bag in the room and headed back downstairs.
The hotel didn’t have a dining room, but there was a café in the next block run by a Norwegian couple with thick accents. The husband fried up a good steak, and the wife’s deep-dish apple pie was as good as any Luke had tasted in a long time. Her coffee was considerably better than Marshal Elliott’s, too.
By the time he was finished with the meal, he was comfortably full and a bit drowsy but not quite ready to turn in yet. He stood on the boardwalk outside the ca
fé, lit a cheroot, and considered his options.
There seemed to be only one. Rimrock appeared to have but a single saloon, the Powder River . . . where Delia Bradley worked. He gazed diagonally across the broad main street toward the brightly lit building, not sure he wanted to run into her again.
On the other hand, he was damned if he would allow some little soiled dove who didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet keep him from going anywhere he wanted to go.
Clenching the cheroot between his teeth, he started across the street. He heard the tinny notes of a player piano coming from inside before he reached the entrance. The merry sound grew louder as he pushed the batwings aside and stepped into the saloon.
The place was about half full, with a number of men standing at the bar and others sitting at tables drinking and playing cards. Luke spotted three women, all with painted faces and wearing gaudy dresses, delivering drinks from the bar to the tables, but none of them was Delia Bradley.
Maybe she was taking the night off because she was too upset about her outlaw beau being captured to work, Luke thought.
Most of the men and all three of the women turned to look at him when he came in. It wouldn’t have taken long for word to get around town that a bounty hunter was in Rimrock. He was probably the only stranger in these parts, other than McCluskey himself, so he had to be the manhunter. Some of the saloon’s patrons had seen him earlier that afternoon, too, when he and Elliott marched a barefoot, stripped to the waist, sullenly scowling Frank McCluskey to the local juzgado.
Luke didn’t particularly want the attention. He figured he’d drink a beer, then head back to the hotel and try to get a good night’s sleep. He gave the people in the saloon a curt nod, then headed for the bar.
The man on the other side of the hardwood was lean and gray, wearing an apron tied around his waist, a white shirt with sleeve garters, and a brocaded vest. He greeted Luke with a sardonic, unreadable expression and asked, “What’ll it be?”
“Beer if it’s cold.”
“It’s what passes for cold around here,” the bartender said. “Is that good enough for you?”
Luke chuckled. “I reckon it’ll have to be.”
Although the beer the drink juggler pulled from a tap was only cool, it tasted good. Luke took a long swallow and nodded in satisfaction.
The bartender finally smiled. “You’re him. The bounty hunter.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re the reason I’ve got a girl upstairs crying her eyes out instead of, well, doing what she’s supposed to be doing.”
Luke shook his head. “I’d tell you I’m sorry, but that’s not really my responsibility. Anyway, McCluskey just rode in here yesterday. How could she fall head over heels in love with him that fast?”
The bartender grunted. “You don’t know Delia. That girl . . . well, she never does anything halfway. She’s all the time pitching a conniption fit over one thing or another. I’d fire her and run her little round behind out of here if she wasn’t so good at what she does.”
“Somebody who’s that quick to go whole hog about something is usually pretty quick to get over it, too,” Luke commented.
“We can only hope,” the bartender said, raising his bushy gray eyebrows. “In the meantime, I’d watch my back if I was you, Mr. Jensen.”
“I’m sort of in the habit of that.” Luke finished the beer and thought about seeing if he could sit in on one of the poker games, then decided he was too tired for cards. He nodded good night to the bartender and walked out of the Powder River, aware that some of the customers were still watching him curiously.
Most of the time, life in a frontier town was so monotonous that any distraction was welcome. Luke knew that and didn’t take offense at the staring.
Nobody was in the hotel lobby except the desk clerk, who still didn’t look too happy about the prospect of repairing those bullet holes. Luke ignored the man and went upstairs to his room. He smiled a little, though, as he passed the section of wall McCluskey had done such a good job of ventilating.
His room was on the other side of the hall and a couple doors farther along. As he approached it, he looked at the spot where he had wedged a bit of black thread between the door and jamb, down low, close to the floor. It was still there, telling him that no one had gotten into the room.
Unless they had come in through the window, that is. Since there was no balcony outside—Luke had already thought to check on that—such an invasion would have been difficult. It would have required leaning a ladder against the front wall of the hotel, something that was liable to be noticed in a tranquil place like Rimrock.
He was satisfied that he wasn’t walking into an ambush, but had a gun in his right hand anyway as he used his left to unlock the door and swing it open. He’d left the curtain pushed back over the window so some light from the street came in, and he could see well enough to tell that the room was empty except for its simple furniture. He stepped inside, holstered the Remington, closed and locked the door, and pulled the curtain before he lit the lamp on the table beside the bed.
His gun belt and holstered revolvers went on the lone ladderback chair, which he’d pushed over next to the bed so the weapons would be handy while he was sleeping. He dropped his hat on the table next to the lamp. He had taken off his boots and undressed down to his trousers when a quiet knock sounded on the door.
He stiffened for a second and then reached down to slide one of the Remingtons from its holster. Knowing how easy it was to fire a shotgun through the flimsy panels of the door, he stood to the side and well back in the room so it would be more difficult for someone in the hall to pinpoint his location by the sound of his voice as he called, “Who’s there?”
“Delia Bradley.”
Not many things surprised Luke after the life he’d led, but that answer did. He stayed where he was and asked, “What do you want, Miss Bradley?”
“Just to talk,” Delia said through the door. “I promise. I . . . I’d like to apologize for my behavior earlier today, Mr. Jensen.”
Luke didn’t trust her for a second, but he was curious. She sounded calm and rational enough. Of course, that could be an act. Still, there was only one way to find out.
In his bare feet, he moved to the door in utter silence and turned the key slowly and carefully. It didn’t click in the lock to alert Delia that he was right on the other side of the door.
He backed off and told her, “It’s open. Come on in.”
CHAPTER 4
Luke had the Remington leveled and the hammer thumbed back as the door opened. Delia didn’t seem bothered by having a gun pointed at her as she stepped into the room, but she said, “You don’t need that. I give you my word, Luke.”
He had gone from Mr. Jensen to Luke mighty fast, he thought, especially considering that a few hours earlier she’d tried to shoot him and then claw his eyes out. Maybe she really did want to apologize.
She wore a simple gray dress, although it was cut low enough to leave her shoulders mostly bare and reveal a considerable amount of the valley between her full breasts. A lacy shawl was draped around her shoulders to entice more than it concealed.
It wouldn’t do much to keep her warm, Luke thought.
He lowered the Remington but didn’t put it away, holding it at his side. “I didn’t really expect to see you again before I left town, Miss Bradley.”
“Please, call me Delia.” She smiled a little as she moved a step closer. “I’m used to men being on an, ah, informal footing with me, if you know what I mean.”
Luke grunted. He was well aware that she was running her eyes over his bare chest, shoulders, and arms, and the flirtatious look he had first seen in the hotel corridor that afternoon was back in her eyes.
She had looked at him like that just before she’d pulled that derringer and tried to shoot him in the back, he reminded himself. It wasn’t fooling him.
When he didn’t say anything, she went on. “I just wante
d to tell you that I know I got carried away earlier today. You were just doing your job, and I shouldn’t have tried to hurt you because of it. Really, I . . . I don’t know what came over me. Goodness gracious, I hadn’t even known that man, that Mr. Yarnell, for twenty-four hours. If I’d known he was a wanted outlaw, I never would have caused so much trouble.”
Well, that was a bald-faced lie, thought Luke. She had called him Frank when she’d screamed the warning to him, so obviously McCluskey had told her who he was. Guess she thought a seductive smile and a look down the front of her dress would be enough to distract him into forgetting about that.
It might have worked on a lot of men. Even Luke had to admit that the view was mighty damn appealing. But whenever somebody tried to kill him he had a hard time forgetting it. “I accept your apology. Now, if there’s nothing else, it’s been a long day and I’m tired.”
“You probably want to turn in.”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t have to do it alone, you know.” She slid the shawl off her shoulders and dropped it over the top of the chair. “After everything that happened, I feel like I owe you something, Luke. I’d be glad to spend the night with you, and it won’t cost you a thing.” She started to slip the dress down off her left shoulder.
“You can stop right there.”
She froze, and anger flashed in her eyes. “Are you sure about that? I promise, I can make the time pass mighty pleasantly for you, honey. In fact, I guarantee it.”
“And then what? You try to talk me into busting McCluskey out of jail and letting him go free so you can run off with him? Is that the sort of romantic notion you’ve got in your head, Delia?”
She forced an expression of surprise on her face, but Luke could tell it wasn’t genuine.
“What are you talking about? Such a crazy thought never even entered my mind! I just feel bad about what happened earlier and want to make it up to you.”
Bad Men Die Page 2