Bad Men Die

by William W. Johnstone

  Delia was still struggling as Luke tore the bonnet off her head and used its strings to bind her wrists together. She spit and snapped at him like a wildcat.

  She was pure-dee crazy, he thought, consumed with hate and obsessed with a no-good outlaw.

  When he was satisfied that she couldn’t get away, he stood up and drew his left-hand Remington, which had stayed in its holster. He looked at Burroughs still covering McCluskey. The owlhoot showed no signs of regaining consciousness yet.

  “You all right, Derek?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got this one, Luke. He’s not going anywhere.”

  Luke hurried over to the men who had gathered around Hatfield. When the crowd parted a little and he saw that Hatfield was sitting up.

  “Looks like he was just creased on the hip,” one of the townies reported. “He’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Hatfield said as he lifted a hand. “Somebody help me up.”

  “I’m not sure you should be walkin’, Marshal—”

  “Damn it, I have to see if Fred’s all right.”

  Luke understood the worry over the deputy. If Ordway was still hale and hearty, it was unlikely McCluskey would have gotten out of the jail.

  Luke clasped wrists with Hatfield and lifted the young man to his feet. Hatfield’s jeans were dark with blood at his left hip, but the injury didn’t stop him from heading for the office, although he limped badly along the way.

  Consuela hurried to meet him, still carrying the basket containing McCluskey’s supper. She said anxiously, “Bob!” In her fear for him, she obviously wasn’t worried about keeping things formal between them.

  “I’m all right, Consuela,” he told her as he reached the boardwalk in front of the marshal’s office. “At least I reckon I will be.” He disappeared inside with her right behind him.

  Luke reached down and grasped Delia’s arm. She kicked at him as he hauled her to her feet. He turned her around so she was facing away from him, took hold of both of her arms, and marched her toward the marshal’s office.

  “I don’t know how the hell you got here from Rimrock,” he told her, “but you’re going behind bars just like McCluskey.”

  She flung out curses that would have done a muleskinner proud.

  Luke ignored them. “And if you killed that deputy, I wouldn’t be surprised if you wound up hanging for it.”

  “That fat fool’s not dead,” Delia said.

  Luke hoped she was right.

  As he shoved her into the marshal’s office, he saw Hatfield and several other men through the open cell block door. They had Fred Ordway propped up against the bars of an empty cell. The deputy’s left shoulder was covered with blood, but at least he was alive and conscious. Consuela knelt beside him, mopping at the blood around his wound.

  Hatfield turned toward Luke, swayed, and almost fell. He caught himself with a hand against the doorjamb and asked, “Who’s this?” as he nodded toward Delia.

  “She’s the one who shot you and tried to bust McCluskey out of here,” Luke explained. “She may be dressed prim and proper now, but she’s just a saloon girl from over in Rimrock who fancies herself in love with him.”

  “I am in love with him!” Delia screeched. “And I’ll kill all of you to save him!”

  “It would be a good idea to lock her up, Marshal,” Luke said.

  Hatfield nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. Put her in that cell across from the one where McCluskey was.”

  Luke forced Delia into the cell and clanged the door closed behind her. He asked the marshal, “How’s your hip?”

  “Hurts like blazes, but the bullet just creased me. Didn’t break any bones as far as I can tell. I’ll live. I’ll just be a mite gimpy for a while. Where’s McCluskey?”

  “A friend of mine knocked him out and is keeping an eye on him.”

  “We need to get him back behind bars.”

  “I’ll take care of that.” Luke went to the door and motioned to several of the men crowding onto the boardwalk to peer into the marshal’s office. “Some of you fellas pick up McCluskey and carry him in here.”

  They toted the senseless outlaw into the building and dropped him none too gently on the bunk in the cell he had occupied previously, causing some signs of coming around to appear. It was the third time he’d been knocked out in the past few days.

  It was a wonder his skull wasn’t getting a little mushy by now, Luke thought.

  Seeing that Burroughs had followed the men carrying McCluskey into the jail, Luke nodded to him. “I’m sure obliged to you, Derek. You not only saved my life, you made sure McCluskey didn’t get loose to keep on robbing and killing.”

  “Well, I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing when I saw him about to shoot you, now could I?” Burroughs said with a grin. He clapped a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “What are old friends for if not to save each other’s lives every now and then?”

  “Well, it’s a debt I won’t forget,” Luke said.

  A little bird-like man in a dark suit hurried into the office. Seeing the medical bag in the man’s hand, Luke pointed to the cell block door. “Your patients are in there, Doctor.”

  The sawbones nodded and bustled past them.

  A moment later, Hatfield came out of the cell block, being helped by Consuela. “I told Doc to tend to Fred first. He’s hurt a lot worse than I am.”

  “You need medical attention, too,” Consuela said to the marshal.

  “I’ll get it, as soon as I know that Fred’s going to be all right. Just help me sit down. I’d just as soon get off this leg.”

  Luke and Consuela helped lower him into the chair behind the desk. Once Hatfield was sitting, he frowned and reached out to pull a book lying on the desk toward him. “What’s this?”

  “It looks like a Bible,” Consuela said.

  “That’s what it was.” Luke took hold of the leather-bound volume and opened it to reveal that someone had carved out a space in the pages. When the book was closed, no one would be able to see what had been done to it. “I knew Delia must have smuggled a gun in here somehow and then gotten the drop on Deputy Ordway. I guess when he’s up to it he can tell us exactly what happened. But for now it’s enough to know that she-devil tried to help McCluskey escape—and failed.”

  “It’s a good thing we’ve got her locked up, then,” Hatfield said.

  Luke nodded solemnly. “Truer words were never spoken, Marshal. That’s exactly where she belongs.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Marshal Hatfield’s only other deputy was Chuck Helton, a middle-aged part-timer whose main job was as a hostler at Peterson’s Livery Stable. Having heard the shooting, he showed up a short time later, was introduced to Luke, and took over the office.

  Several men carried Fred Ordway over to the doctor’s house on a stretcher, since he was hurt badly enough to need quite a bit of care for a while. The sawbones believed that Ordway would recover, which was a relief.

  He cleaned and bandaged the wound on Hatfield’s hip and sent the lawman home with Consuela. By that time, Hatfield had started to worry about Bucky having been left there alone.

  “I expect that boy of yours is fine, Marshal,” Luke told him. “From what I saw, he’s pretty level-headed and can take care of himself.”

  “Well, I hope so, but he’s only ten years old,” Hatfield said with a frown. He limped out of the office, leaning on Consuela.

  She would get him home all right, Luke was certain of that.

  Helton seemed relieved that Luke was going to spend the night at the jail. He said as much once everybody had cleared out. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Jensen. The only law work I’ve ever done is helpin’ Bob haul in a few drunk cowboys or prospectors every now and then. I never had to be responsible for prisoners like those two.”

  “They’re behind bars now where they can’t hurt anybody,” Luke said. “Just be careful and keep your distance from them, and you’ll be all right.”

  It had been
a long day. Weariness gripped him. He went into the storeroom, stretched out on the cot he found there, and closed his eyes. Sleep didn’t come right away, however.

  He could still hear Delia cursing and carrying on in the cell block. He had a feeling he might wind up hearing that unpleasant sound in his dreams.

  Or in his nightmares, more likely.

  Luke had agreed to meet Derek Burroughs for breakfast the next day, before the train pulled out. The meal was going to be on him. It was the very least he could do to repay his old comrade for saving his life and preventing McCluskey’s escape.

  Delia had finally run out of steam, stopped pitching a fit, and gone to sleep sometime during the night. McCluskey was asleep, too, when Luke checked on them the next morning.

  The outlaw had never gotten his supper the night before, but Luke couldn’t muster up any sympathy for him, not after the way he had gunned down Fred Ordway in addition to all his other crimes.

  “Morning,” Deputy Helton greeted when Luke entered the marshal’s office. “What do you think Bob will do with that lady prisoner? Are you gonna take her to Cheyenne with you, Mr. Jensen?”

  Luke leaned a hip on the corner of the desk and frowned in thought. After a moment, he said, “As far as I know, the only place where charges would be against her are right here in Rattlesnake Wells or maybe over in Rimrock. From what Deputy Ordway was able to tell us last night, she came here posing as a missionary. She had to get here somehow, so she must have stolen a horse and a buggy or a wagon in Rimrock. Maybe when the marshal feels a little more spry, he can ask around and find out. But there’s no point in me taking her to Cheyenne.” With a grim smile, Luke shook his head. “As long as she stays locked up until I’m on that train later this morning, I don’t really care what he does with her. She’s the one who shot him, so I imagine he’ll charge her with assault and attempted murder for that. She’ll probably go to prison.”

  With that settled, as much as it could be, Luke left the marshal’s office and headed over to the café where he and Burroughs were supposed to meet. He found his old friend already there, drinking coffee. Luke signaled the waitress for a cup of his own, then sat down at the table.

  Burroughs grinned. “I’ve already got flapjacks, bacon, and eggs on the way for both of us, Luke. That sound all right to you?”

  “It sounds just fine to me. We sure would have enjoyed a meal like that during some of those campaigns in the war, wouldn’t we have?”

  “Shoot, I’d have settled for real coffee instead of that muddy water they had us drinking!”

  Luke grimaced. “I don’t think either of us would ever want to go back to those days.”

  “No, sir,” Burroughs agreed. “I’ve had enough of war to last me the rest of my life.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I’m a peace-loving man now.”

  “I try to be,” Luke said with a sigh, “but somehow it never seems to work out that way.”

  There was a lot of truth to that. Clearly, in his line of work a man couldn’t expect much peace and quiet. Death and danger were his frequent companions, in fact.

  But there were times when he wasn’t chasing outlaws, and even then trouble seemed to have a way of finding him.

  Maybe it was the Jensen name, he mused. Judging by what he had heard from Smoke and Matt, the same thing happened to them. No matter where they went or what they did, sooner or later somebody wound up shooting at them.

  The food was good, and Luke enjoyed the meal. He kept an eye on the time, though. He didn’t want to miss that train and have to wait for the next one. He had nothing against Rattlesnake Wells—in fact he liked most of the people he had met—but he was ready to put the place behind him.

  After checking his turnip watch one last time, he slipped it back into his pocket and said, “I’ve got to be going, Derek.” He laid a couple silver dollars on their table, which would more than pay for their meals. “It was really good to see you again, and a stroke of excellent luck, too.” Luke smiled. “In all likelihood, I’d be dead now if you hadn’t been around last night.”

  “Right place, right time.” Burroughs held out his hand as both men stood up. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again one of these days.”

  “I hope so.” Luke clasped Burroughs’ hand for a moment and then left the café to head for the marshal’s office.

  Consuela had been there while he was gone, he discovered. She’d brought breakfast for both prisoners.

  “It was more than they deserve,” Helton told Luke. “Especially the gal. She called poor Señorita Diaz all sorts of ugly names. But she’s a real lady, the señorita is. She never turned a hair. It beats me why Bob hasn’t married her yet.”

  “Wondered the same thing myself,” Luke admitted, “and I haven’t even been around here very long.”

  Helton chuckled. “He’ll come to his senses one of these days, maybe.” The deputy stood up and reached for the keys. “I reckon you’re ready to take McCluskey down to the depot.”

  “That’s right.”

  As if to punctuate Luke’s words, the shrill sound of a steam whistle came through the open front door of the office. The train was about to roll into Rattlesnake Wells.

  After leaving the café, Derek Burroughs walked at a deliberate pace along Main Street until he reached the livery stable.

  Joe Peterson greeted him by saying, “Got your horse ready to go just like you asked, Mr. Burroughs.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” Burroughs said with a friendly smile. His saddlebags and rifle were already on the mount. He had brought them over earlier, before meeting Luke for breakfast.

  “You think you’ll ever be coming back to Rattlesnake Wells?” The liveryman didn’t seem offended that Burroughs checked the cinches. Any man who spent much time in the saddle wanted to be sure everything was as it should be before he mounted up.

  “I don’t really know,” Burroughs replied to Peterson’s question. “Maybe one of these days I’ll mosey back in this direction.”

  “Well, if you ever do, you know where to bring your horse. It’s been a pleasure doin’ business with you.”

  “Same here, Joe.” Burroughs handed an extra silver dollar to the liveryman. Everywhere he went, he tried to be as pleasant and easygoing as possible. Everybody was glad to know him and sad to see him go.

  That was the way Burroughs wanted it.

  He swung up into the saddle, lifted a hand in farewell, and turned the horse to ride out of the settlement and head into the mountains to the north. As he started up the slopes, he heard the whistle of the locomotive. The train was pulling in, and in less than an hour it would roll out of Rattlesnake Wells, heading back to the junction with the Union Pacific.

  Burroughs smiled as he thought about what that train was going to be carrying, in addition to a bounty hunter and a prisoner.

  CHAPTER 13

  The train’s passengers disembarked fairly quickly, then with much clanging of metal and hissing of steam, the locomotive backed the caboose onto a siding where it was uncoupled. It pulled forward again and was uncoupled from the coal tender, the two passenger cars, and the two freight cars that made up the train.

  With that done the locomotive rolled into the roundhouse to be turned so it could head back the way it had come. Luke felt his impatience growing as minutes passed and the locomotive didn’t reappear.

  He stood on the platform next to McCluskey, who was wearing cuffs and leg irons again. Luke kept his left hand on the outlaw’s right arm. The other passengers getting ready to board the train kept their distance.

  “You’ll never get me to Cheyenne alive,” McCluskey said as he scowled.

  “That’s a foolish thing to say, McCluskey,” Luke replied. “I’d think you would understand by now, I don’t care if I get you there alive. I’d just as soon get you there dead.”

  “You won’t get me there at all, damn you.”

  “Yesterday you were so cooperative,” Luke said dryly. “What happened?”

  “I knew som
ething would happen to get me loose.”

  “You knew that crazy Delia would show up?”

  “No. I just knew it would be something. And I still do. I won’t die at the hands of the law, and that includes bounty hunters. I had a vision.”

  “Good Lord,” Luke muttered. “Spare us from two-bit bandits with visions.”

  “I mean it,” McCluskey insisted. “I know my destiny. I’m not gonna hang, and you’re not gonna kill me, Jensen. You just wait and see.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do. Actually, I don’t attend many hangings. But I’m going to make a point of watching you dance on air, McCluskey, hopefully not too far in the distant future.”

  And that future was coming closer, Luke thought. The locomotive had finally rolled out of the roundhouse and was pulling past the platform again on another siding so it could get in front of the cars. Once that coupling was made, the train would pull past the caboose on the other siding and then back up so it could be hooked on.

  It was a laborious and hazardous process for the railroad workers who handled the coupling and uncoupling, but it was the only way to turn a train around at the end of a spur line like Rattlesnake Wells.

  The blue-uniformed conductor moved onto the steps of one of the passenger cars and bellowed, “All abooarrdd!”

  The people waiting on the platform, including Luke and McCluskey, moved toward the cars.

  Luke Jensen and his prisoner were gone, and Chuck Helton was pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove when the part-time deputy heard noises coming from the cell block.

  He frowned and turned in that direction as he tried to figure out what was going on. It sounded almost like a cat had gotten in the cell block somehow and was squalling. That was impossible, though.

  Or was it? Helton supposed a cat could have squeezed in through one of the barred windows in the cells. The blasted critters could get in places you never thought they could. He liked having them around the livery stable where he worked because they kept the mice and rats down, but other than that, he’d never warmed up to them.