Bad Men Die

by William W. Johnstone

  “Ever since then I’ve been drifting,” Burroughs continued. “Never could seem to settle down any one place. I drove cattle from Texas up to the railheads in Kansas for a while and thought about becoming a rancher, but I just couldn’t see it. When folks struck gold in the Black Hills, I went up there and thought I’d make my fortune.” He laughed and shook his head. “Gold and I just seem to have a natural aversion to each other.” He leaned forward. “All right. I rambled on and let you eat, because I know a hungry man when I see one. But now you can tell me what you’ve been doing for the past fifteen years.”

  “There’s not a lot to tell.” Luke didn’t like to talk about the past.

  “You’re not getting off that easy,” Burroughs said. “Did you go home after the war? Where was it? Missouri, right? The Ozarks?”

  Burroughs had a good memory, being able to recall those details from late-night conversations around a campfire. That was where the Jensen family farm had been, all right. Luke’s little brother Kirby—known to one and all as Smoke, these days—had kept it going, along with their mother and their sister Janey while Luke and their pa Emmett had gone off to fight.

  That part of the Jensen family had endured its own tragedies during the conflict that had split the nation apart, things that Smoke didn’t like to talk about, even to this day. But after he and Luke had been reunited, he had shared the truth.

  Luke shook his head. “No, I never went home. After everything that had happened, it just didn’t seem like the right thing to do. I did like you—went on the drift.” He swallowed some of the beer. “Wound up getting into bounty hunting work.”

  “A bounty hunter,” Burroughs repeated.

  Luke looked for signs of disapproval but didn’t see any.

  “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised. You were always the toughest fella I ever knew, Luke.” Burroughs grinned. “That’s why I always tried to keep track of where you were when we were fighting the Yankees. I figured most of their shots would be aimed at you, so if I could keep a little distance between us, I’d be safer.”

  Luke chuckled. He knew that Burroughs was exaggerating. The man hadn’t been foolhardy or reckless, but he had never lacked for courage and had given a good account of himself in every battle.

  “What brings you to Rattlesnake Wells?” Burroughs went on. “You hunting an outlaw?”

  “Nope. Already caught him. He’s locked up over at the jail, and I’ll be getting on the train with him in the morning and taking him to Cheyenne.”

  “Well, how about that? Good reward on him?”

  Luke nodded. “Good enough.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Burroughs grew serious. “I imagine it’s a hard life, but I wish you the best with it, Luke, I really do.”

  “How about you?” Luke asked. “Why are you here?”

  “Well . . .” Burroughs let out a rueful laugh. “I said that gold and I have a natural aversion to each other, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped trying to find it. I was thinking about staking a claim up in the Prophecies and giving prospecting another shot.”

  “Good luck to you, if you do.”

  “Oh, I’ll have good luck. I consider the two of us meeting like this to be an omen. It’s not every day you run into an old friend, you know.”

  “I reckon not,” Luke agreed. He wasn’t sure he believed in omens, though.

  But he believed in luck, no doubt about that, and he hoped his would continue to run as smoothly as it had since that ruckus at the dry wash the day before.

  Joe Peterson was working on a wagon in his wagon yard—had a wheel off so he could grease the axle—when the buggy rolled up in front of the livery stable next door. His hands were pretty dirty, so he grabbed a rag from the wagon seat and wiped them as he walked toward the buggy.

  A woman was at the reins, he noted with interest. She wore a prim blue dress with little flowers on it and a blue sunbonnet with blond curls peeking out from under it. A thick book with black leather binding—a Bible, more than likely—lay on the seat beside her.

  She greeted him with a big smile. “Good afternoon, sir. I was wondering if I could leave my buggy and my team here with you?”

  A couple fine brown horses were hitched to the buggy, which was a nice, well-cared-for vehicle. The woman was nice, too—young and pretty with a wholesome innocence about her.

  She didn’t have a wedding ring on her finger, he noted. “You sure can, miss. I’ll take good care of the critters for you.”

  She picked up the Bible and held it in both hands as she said, “Would it be all right if I looked inside, just to assure myself that conditions are suitable? I mean no offense, of course. It’s just that I love all of God’s creatures so much, even the beasts of burden, and I want to be sure they’ll be treated properly.”

  Peterson was a little annoyed, but he didn’t show it. He smiled and nodded. “Why, sure, that would be fine. Let me give you a hand . . .” He helped her climb down from the buggy and led her inside the barn. It was cooler there, out of the sun.

  She kept her Bible clutched in front of her chest, as if to ward off any evil that might come at her.

  “This is the finest livery stable between Laramie and Rock Springs, if I do say so myself,” he told her.

  “I do believe you’re right, Mister . . . ?”

  “Peterson, ma’am. Joe Peterson.”

  She paused in front of the two most recently occupied stalls, the ones that held the horses brought in by Jensen. “These animals look like they’re quite happy,” she commented.

  “Like I said, I take good care of the animals stabled here.” Peterson gave in to the curiosity he felt and asked, “Ma’am, are you some sort of, I don’t know, missionary? I couldn’t help but notice that you’re carryin’ a Bible.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Peterson,” she said, giving him another of those dazzling smiles. “A missionary is exactly what I am. I’ve come to spread the good news to Rattlesnake Wells. You can call me Sister Delia.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Derek Burroughs left after reminiscing for a while, saying that he had to make arrangements for supplies for his prospecting trip. Luke agreed to meet his old friend back at Bullock’s that evening, after he’d had supper at Marshal Hatfield’s house.

  With nothing to do that afternoon, Luke sat in on a poker game at the saloon. The stakes were low, the play friendly, the company convivial. He kept his wagers small and didn’t bluff wildly, so when he cashed out late that afternoon he was forty dollars ahead. Not a bad day’s work, he thought, especially since the time had passed pleasantly.

  He lit a cheroot and strolled back over to the marshal’s office. Other than the usual commotion from the large number of people in the boomtown, it had been a quiet afternoon in Rattlesnake Wells, so he was confident that the prisoner hadn’t caused any trouble. But it never hurt to check on things. And he’d realized that he didn’t know where Bob Hatfield lived. Whoever was in the office, either the marshal or a deputy could tell him.

  Opening the door, Luke saw that Hatfield wasn’t there. Behind the desk was a heavyset young man with dark, curly hair, an eager expression, and a deputy’s badge pinned to his shirt. He appeared even younger than Sundown Bob. From what Luke had seen so far, Rattlesnake Wells didn’t have an abundance of experienced lawmen, but the town didn’t seem any the worse for it.

  “Something I can do for you, mister?” the deputy asked.

  “I’m Luke Jensen. I brought in that prisoner McCluskey earlier today.”

  The deputy got to his feet quickly. “I’m Fred Ordway. Bob told me about you, Mr. Jensen. He said I was to give you a hand if you needed anything.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Fred. All I need is for you to tell me where the marshal’s house is. He asked me to have supper with him and his boy tonight.”

  “Oh, sure. Go two blocks up Main to Dodge Street and turn left on Dodge. It’ll be in the second block, on the right. It’s a pretty white house with a flower bed full of r
oses out front. You can’t miss it.”

  Luke nodded. “I’m obliged, Deputy. One more thing. I’d like to take a look at the prisoner.”

  “He’s doin’ fine. He’ll be gettin’ supper from Señorita Consuela, too. Better than he deserves, I’m thinkin’.” Deputy Ordway took the ring of keys from the nail on the wall where it hung. “But you can check on him if you want. It’s no trouble at all.”

  He unlocked the cell block door, and he and Luke went in. McCluskey was stretched out on his bunk, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He turned his head a little to glance at Luke, then resumed his staring.

  “He’s been like that ever since I got here,” Ordway said. “Not a lick of trouble. Bob told me to be careful with him, though. Said he might be tricky.”

  “That’s right,” Luke agreed. “Anything he tells you, you can figure there’s a good chance he’s lying.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll sure keep that in mind.”

  Things seemed to be well under control, but worry still nagged at the back of Luke’s mind. He couldn’t accept the change in McCluskey’s attitude. The outlaw wouldn’t give up that easily.

  But as long as he wasn’t trying to escape, there really wasn’t anything else Luke or the local lawmen could do. He and Ordway went back into the office, and Ordway locked the cell block door.

  “I suppose I’ll head on over to the marshal’s house now,” Luke said.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” Ordway assured him. “I’ll keep a close eye on the prisoner.”

  Luke shook hands with the deputy and thanked him, then walked up Main to Dodge Street.

  Ordway was right. The well-kept white house with the neat flower bed full of red roses out front was no trouble to find. Luke went up the walk, past the flowers to the porch, and knocked on the front door.

  The woman who responded to the knock wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. She was maybe twenty-five years old and extremely attractive, with smooth olive skin and long raven hair parted in the middle. She wore an apron over a dress that clung to her rich figure. “Can I help you, señor?”

  Maybe she was the housekeeper’s daughter, Luke speculated. He took off his hat and held it in his left hand. “My name is Luke Jensen—”

  “Of course!” she broke in as she gave him a smile that made her even prettier. “Señor Hatfield told me you were coming to supper. Please, come in, Señor Jensen.”

  “I hope I’m not too early,” Luke commented as he stepped inside. To his left was a comfortably furnished parlor. Everything seemed to be spotless and exactly in its place.

  “No, not too early at all. I am Consuela Diaz.” She offered him her hand, and as he took it he realized that she must be the housekeeper and cook after all, despite her youth and beauty.

  “Señor Hatfield and Bucky are out back,” she told him. “You are welcome to join them while I finish preparing the meal.”

  That was confirmation of her identity, he thought. But he was curious about something else. “And Mrs. Hatfield?”

  The smile on Consuela’s face was replaced by a solemn expression. “I’m sorry to say, Señora Hatfield passed away two years ago, not long after the family came here.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Luke said. “Thank you for telling me, Señorita Diaz. That way I won’t say anything to the marshal that might be awkward.”

  “Of course. You would have no way of knowing.” She pointed along a hallway that led toward the back of the house. “You can go out that way, Señor Jensen.”

  Luke nodded his thanks, put his hat on again, and found the back door. He thought about what he had just learned from Consuela Diaz. It seemed the young marshal was a widower and had a mighty pretty housekeeper and cook to help him raise his son.

  Whatever else she might help him with was none of his business, Luke told himself, but he was human enough that he couldn’t help wondering about it.

  When he stepped out into the yard, he spotted Marshal Hatfield and the boy standing under a cottonwood tree, facing away from him toward a fence about twenty feet from them. Empty cans were balanced on three of the fence posts. It was obvious to Luke what Hatfield and Bucky were doing.

  For one thing, Bucky was wearing a gun belt and holstered revolver, too. The gun was a Smith & Wesson. 32 with no trigger guard, lighter, with a shorter barrel than the Colt Peacemaker Hatfield carried, and more suited to the youngster.

  Neither of them seemed to have noticed Luke.

  As he approached, Hatfield said to his son, “All right, Buck, let’s see your draw. Remember, you want it to be fast, but it needs to be smooth, too. That’s even more important. Don’t jerk the gun. It’s liable to throw off your aim if you do.”

  Bucky nodded, concentrating on the cans atop the fence posts. His right hand was poised for a hook and draw. He grabbed the .32 and pulled it from the holster.

  The draw was pretty swift for a kid, Luke thought, and clearly Bucky had been listening to his pa’s advice because the gun came out slick and smooth. He lifted it, thumb curling over the hammer and drawing it back, and when the gun came level Bucky squeezed the trigger.

  The hammer clicked as it fell on an empty chamber. Bucky cocked and dry-fired the revolver twice more, rapidly shifting his aim each time.

  Hatfield clapped him on the shoulder. “Not bad, son. Not bad at all. I think you might’ve gotten all three of those cans.”

  “I agree,” Luke said.

  Hatfield looked back at him casually. His lack of being startled made Luke realize the marshal had been aware of his presence all along.

  Bucky looked around quickly, though, and exclaimed, “Mr. Jensen! The bounty hunter!”

  “Some men don’t like being called that, Bucky,” his father advised.

  “It’s all right,” Luke said with a little wave of his hand. “That doesn’t bother me. It’s exactly what I am.”

  “Have you been by the jail?” Hatfield asked.

  “Just a little while ago. Your deputy seemed to have things under control.”

  Hatfield nodded. “Fred’s a good man. He hasn’t been packing a badge for very long, but he’s eager to learn and he’s taken to the job well.”

  Bucky spoke up. “My pa’s teachin’ me how to be fast on the draw, Mr. Jensen.”

  “I saw that,” Luke told him. “It looks like you’re learning, too. I don’t think many youngsters your age could get a gun out that slick.”

  “You should see Pa draw and shoot. He’s the fastest there is!”

  Hatfield said, “Don’t exaggerate, Bucky. There are plenty of men faster than me.”

  “Show him, Pa,” the youngster urged. “Show Mr. Jensen your draw.”

  “No, I’m sure Mr. Jensen has better things to do than stand around and watch me shoot.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Luke said, “I don’t. I’m just waiting for supper to be ready, and your housekeeper talked like it would still be a few minutes.”

  Hatfield’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be wanting to get some idea of how you’d stack up against me, would you, Mr. Jensen?”

  “Not at all,” Luke answered honestly. “I’m always interested in how a man handles a gun, though. I guess it goes with being in my line of work.”

  “You see, Pa!” Bucky said. “Go ahead and draw.”

  “Well . . .” Hatfield shrugged. “I suppose it won’t hurt anything. Folks around here are used to hearing shots coming from back here when Bucky’s practicing.” He turned toward the fence, stood there for just a second, and then in a draw too fast for the eye to follow, the Colt fairly leaped into his hand and spat flame as he triggered three swift shots from the hip. Each of the cans flew into the air, neatly drilled by a bullet, and then thudded to the ground.

  Bucky let out a shrill whistle of admiration.

  Luke was impressed, too. He didn’t possess the blinding speed with a gun that his brother Smoke did, or even their adopted brother Matt Jensen, but he was faster on the draw than most hombres.


  However, Bob Hatfield would have shaded him if they’d been facing off. The marshal was that fast.

  He would have given Smoke a run for his money, Luke thought, although he firmly believed that Smoke was faster.

  Seeming a little embarrassed as he turned away from the fence, Hatfield lowered the gun’s barrel, from which a few tendrils of smoke still curled. He took three fresh cartridges from the loops on his shell belt and started replacing the ones he had fired. “It’s always best to reload as soon as you can, Buck. You never know when you might need a full wheel.”

  Luke heard the hint of a drawl in the marshal’s voice that he hadn’t noticed before, and it jogged something in his brain.

  From the back door, Consuela called, “If you men are through shooting up the place, supper is ready!”

  CHAPTER 9

  The food was excellent. If Luke had been expecting something like he would have gotten down in Texas or south of the border, he would have been disappointed, because Consuela served fried chicken, corn on the cob, greens, and some of the tastiest, fluffiest biscuits he’d had in a long time. He decided that her excellence as a cook matched her fastidiousness as a housekeeper . . . and her beauty.

  Luke decided if Sundown Bob Hatfield hadn’t given some thought to marrying the woman, he was a damn fool. Two years of grieving for his late wife was long enough. But again, the marshal’s personal life was none of his business, Luke reminded himself.

  After they had eaten, Consuela announced, “I’ll take supper over to the jail for the prisoner now, Señor Hatfield.”

  Instantly, the marshal got to his feet. “I’ll come with you.”

  She waved him back into his chair. “There is no need. It’s only a few blocks, and despite its growth, Rattlesnake Wells is still a peaceful town.”

  Luke had noticed the same thing, and he understood better why that was so. Word must have gotten around about what a gunslick the young marshal was, and nobody wanted to cross Sundown Bob.

  That wouldn’t last forever, Luke thought as his mouth tightened briefly into a grim line. Sooner or later some hombre who fancied himself a fast gun would show up to test Hatfield’s speed, looking to make a reputation for himself. Even if Hatfield survived that encounter, there would be another and another and another....