“I see.” Luke took the gun belt from the first cowboy. The holsters were reversed for a cross draw. He slid one of the guns from leather and recognized it as a Remington. Fine weapon, he thought. “What about the other two brothers?”
The cowboys grinned and pulled back their coats to reveal that they had taken the gun belts from those bodies, too.
“Those looked like the best guns, so we figured you deserved to have them, Mr. Smith. And the horses, too, if you want ’em.”
“I’ll take one horse as an extra mount,” Luke said. “You fellows can get some good use out of the other two, I expect.”
The punchers exchanged grins.
“We sure can,” one of them said. “We was just about broke last night, ’cept for our saddles and our hosses. Now we got good guns and extra mounts. Reckon we’re plumb rich!”
Luke wasn’t sure he had ever been as young and carefree as those two Texas cowboys. If he had been, he couldn’t remember it.
Marcy came over with the coffeepot. “You two sit down,” she told the punchers. “Breakfast will be ready in a little bit.”
They were all eating a short time later when the door opened again. Luke glanced up and saw a bulky figure silhouetted against the gray light of the overcast day. The first things he noticed were the rifle in the man’s hand and the tin star pinned to his coat. He recognized it as a United States marshal’s badge.
The man wore a thick sheepskin coat and had a broad-brimmed brown hat pulled down tight on his head so the wind wouldn’t blow it away. His face was red, either from the cold, a close acquaintance with whiskey, or both, and a close-cropped blond beard stuck out on his cheeks and chin.
Luke took a deep breath. He was still wanted on murder charges back in Georgia.
CHAPTER 26
“Good morning,” the man said as he came into the roadhouse and swung the door closed behind him. “Mighty chilly out there to go with the dusting of snow.”
“We have coffee if you want it, Marshal,” Marcy said. “And grub.”
The lawman slapped gloved hands together to warm them and grinned. “That sounds fine, ma’am. Nothing like hot food and drink to warm a man up.”
Marcy stood and motioned with her head toward one of the empty tables. “Have a seat. I’ll get you a cup and a plate.”
“Much obliged.”
The marshal went over to the table, set his rifle on it, pulled off his gloves, and dropped his hat next to them. He smiled at Luke and the two cowboys. “Morning, gents.”
The punchers muttered greetings, but Luke said, “Good morning, Marshal.”
“Deputy Marshal,” the lawman corrected him. “Name’s Jasper Thornapple.”
When a man introduced himself, it was only polite to return the favor, and despite the rough environments in which he spent his life, Luke had come to pride himself on his manners. “I’m Luke Smith.”
Thornapple didn’t seem to recognize the name, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was just good at covering up his reactions.
“Teddy Young,” one of the cowboys said.
“Burt Tuttle,” the other puncher added.
“Pleased to meet you,” Thornapple said.
Marcy set a cup of steaming coffee in front of Thornapple. “What brings you out here in the middle of nowhere, Marshal?”
Thornapple nodded his thanks for the coffee. “Well, I’m trailing some men.”
Luke wasn’t surprised by the answer.
“Cooter, Ben, and Carl Gammon. Reckon you’ve probably heard of them,” the marshal added.
“I sure have.” Marcy went back and sat down next to Luke.
“Or rather, I should say I was trailing them,” Thornapple went on. “Came across a wolf pack about a mile east of here, having themselves a feast in a dry wash. There wasn’t much left of the fellas they’d been after, but I’m pretty sure one of them was Cooter Gammon. He had a streak of white in his hair hard to miss. Since there were two men about the same size with him, I feel confident my boss can close the books on the Gammon brothers.”
“Bad luck for them, being caught by a pack of wolves like that,” Luke commented.
Thornapple took a sip of his coffee and nodded. “Especially when those wolves were carrying guns,” he said with a shrewd smile.
The two cowboys couldn’t stop themselves from flinching guiltily. Luke’s face was like stone, though. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean one of those skulls had a bullet hole smack-dab in the middle of its face. Somebody shot that Gammon brother before the wolves got at him. A well-deserved fate, I might add.” Thornapple took another sip of coffee. “You folks have anything you want to tell me? Bear in mind I’m a federal lawman who doesn’t cotton to being lied to.”
“Mr. Smith didn’t have any choice!” one of the punchers burst out. “He didn’t have any choice at all. Those Gammons were worse ’n hydrophobia skunks. They were gonna kill us all!”
As soon as the words stopped tumbling out of the youngster’s mouth, he turned a stricken face to Luke. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. I shouldn’t’ve said nothin’—”
Luke lifted a hand to stop the apology. “That’s all right. I have a feeling Marshal Thornapple already had a pretty good idea what happened. He strikes me as a man who’s been to see the elephant.”
“There and back again,” Thornapple agreed with a smile. “You killed all three of them, Mr. Smith?”
“Two of them, anyway, and I contributed to the third.”
“I cut his throat,” Marcy put in. “He probably would have died anyway, but I didn’t see any harm in hurrying him along to hell.”
“Nor would I, ma’am,” Thornapple said. “In that case, I suppose the two of you will have to come to some sort of equitable arrangement concerning the division of the reward money.”
“Reward money!”
“That’s right, ma’am. Each of the Gammons had a thousand-dollar bounty on his head.”
Marcy leaned back in her chair, her eyes wide with amazement. “Three thousand dollars!”
“That’s right. Come with me to Wichita, and I’ll authorize payment. You can collect from the bank there.”
Marcy looked over at Luke. “My God, we’re rich! I never saw three thousand dollars in my life!”
Luke hesitated to say anything. He didn’t fully trust Thornapple. Maybe the lawman was trying to trick him into going along to Wichita, where he would promptly place him under arrest.
Giving it more thought, that didn’t seem likely. Luke could tell by looking at Thornapple the badge-toter had plenty of bark on him. If Thornapple wanted to make an arrest, he’d just do it instead of trying some fancy trick.
More than likely, Thornapple had never seen any of the wanted posters charging Luke with murder that had circulated back in Georgia.
“There’s just one thing,” Luke said slowly. “I’m not a bounty hunter.”
“You killed three men with a price on their heads,” Thornapple offered. “It’s not like you have to file papers ahead of time or anything. That money is yours by rights, Mr. Smith.”
Marcy looked even more excited. “We’ve got to do it, Luke. We’ve got to claim that reward.”
He understood then how much it meant to her. She had spent her life struggling just to get by, enduring hardship and degradation. The tough times were starting to take a real toll on her.
Yet there was still a spark of dignity inside her, and a sense of determination that might allow her to make something better of her life if she just got the chance. The bounty money could give her that chance.
“All right,” Luke finally agreed. “We’ll go to Wichita with the marshal.”
She threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Luke! You don’t know what this means to me.”
It meant he had inadvertently done something good for somebody. That wasn’t enough to make up for past failures . . . but it was a start.
Thornapple nodded toward the holstered Remingtons and c
oiled shell belt still laying on the table where Luke and Marcy sat. “Nice-looking guns. Whose are they?”
“They’re mine.” Luke reached out and pulled a gun out of the holster. One more bit of bounty for killing the Gammon brothers, he thought.
They split the reward money down the middle, fifteen hundred apiece. Marcy didn’t think that was fair. She wanted to take five hundred for her part and give the rest to Luke, but he refused and insisted she take half.
They set aside an equal amount from each share, and got a room in the finest hotel in Wichita. For a week they ate in the best restaurants the town had to offer, drank champagne they had sent up from one of the saloons, and spent long hours together in bed.
After that week, pleasant though it was, Luke was so restless he couldn’t stand it anymore.
He left the room early one morning while Marcy was still sleeping and walked to the livery stable where he was keeping his horses. He had just thrown his saddle on one of the animals when a voice asked, “Going somewhere, Mr. Smith?”
Luke looked around to see Marshal Jasper Thornapple standing in the open double doors of the livery barn with his shoulder propped casually against one of the jambs.
“Thought I might take a ride,” Luke answered, assuming as casual an attitude as Thornapple.
“Did you tell the young lady good-bye?”
“Who said I wasn’t coming back?”
Thornapple chuckled. “I’ve seen plenty of fiddle-foots in my time, Smith. Hell, I’ve been one. I know the look of a man who feels the call of distant trails.”
Luke shrugged. “Marcy and I aren’t really the sort for sentimental farewells.”
“I have a hunch you might be wrong about how she feels . . . but it’s none of my business, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“That’s right, my business is hunting down lawbreakers. That line of work has given me a healthy curiosity about the people I meet.”
Luke turned a little so he could move faster if he needed to reach for the Remingtons. He had started wearing the cross-draw rig, and wished he’d had more time to practice getting those irons out in a hurry. “Out here on the frontier, curiosity’s generally considered to be not that healthy,” he commented.
“Maybe not, but it’s my job. So I sent some wires and did some checking. I wasn’t surprised to find out that Luke Smith is a pretty common name.”
“Lots of Smiths around,” Luke said, his voice tight.
“The only one I came across that might be of some interest to a man like me was from Georgia. He was wanted for killing a land speculator and some hired guns about five years ago. Was wanted, Smith. That’s important. The charges were dropped last year.”
Luke’s heart suddenly slugged hard in his chest. He wanted to believe what Thornapple was telling him, but it didn’t seem possible it could be true. He managed to ask, “Why would they drop the charges in a case like that?”
“Because once the Reconstruction government was forced to let go of some of its power, the facts of the case came out. Turns out the land speculator was nothing but a carpetbagging thief, and evidence indicated he’d had men killed in order to grab their land. That particular Luke Smith can go back to Georgia without having to worry about the law anymore.”
Luke drew in a deep breath. “That’s a lucky break . . . for him.”
The excitement he’d felt for a second had vanished. There was nothing waiting for him back in Georgia. Emily was probably married to Jess Franklin and raising a couple kids. Even if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t want to see him again. Not after he’d ridden off that night and never come back.
“I just thought you might be interested in hearing about that before you rode off,” Thornapple went on. “Which way do you plan to head? West . . . or east?”
“I set out to go to Denver a while back,” Luke said. “I suppose I still will.”
Thornapple straightened and nodded. “Have a safe journey, then.” He turned to head out of the livery.
Something occurred to Luke. “Marshal.”
Thornapple stopped and turned back to Luke. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you if you’ve heard of some other men? While in your line of work, I mean.”
Thornapple’s brawny shoulders rose and fell. “Sure, go ahead.”
“Wiley Potter. Keith Stratton. Josh Richards. Ted Casey.”
For a long moment, Thornapple frowned in thought. Then he shook his head. “None of those names ring a bell, Smith. Should they?”
“I don’t know. Thought it was possible.”
“Well, I haven’t heard of them. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. I’ll catch up to them one of these days.”
Thornapple lingered. “What do you plan to do with yourself?”
Luke thought about it for a second, then grunted. “Seems like there’s good money in bounty hunting.”
“Well . . . there’s money in it. Some wouldn’t call it good. Some folks call it blood money. And going after it is a good way to get yourself killed.” Thornapple shrugged again. “But you saw that for yourself. Not every owlhoot has a price on his head as big as the bounties on the Gammon brothers. But some are even bigger.”
“That’s what I thought.” Luke tightened the cinch on his saddle. “I’ll be seeing you, Marshal.”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Thornapple said.
Luke didn’t wave or even look back as he rode out of Wichita. He hoped Marcy was still asleep, snug and warm in that hotel room bed, dreaming of the new life she could make for herself with her share of the money. He hoped that when she woke up and found him gone, she wouldn’t hate him.
But either way, he was going.
CHAPTER 27
Blood money, Thornapple had called it, and that turned out to be true.
As the years passed, Luke Smith saw a veritable lake of blood.
From the Rio Grande to the Canadian border, from New Orleans and the Mississippi River delta to San Francisco, Luke roamed, always on the trail of men with a price on their heads. Whether the bounty was big or small didn’t really matter. Kill enough penny-ante owlhoots, as long as somebody was willing to pay for the carcasses, and the money added up.
Sometimes there were big kills, too, high-dollar rewards netting Luke enough cash he wouldn’t have to track down any more outlaws for a while if he didn’t want to.
But what else was he going to do?
The face looking out at him from the mirror when he shaved became craggier, more weathered. The ordeal he had suffered at the end of the Civil War made him look older than his years, and the life he lived after that certainly didn’t make him appear any younger. Those deep-set eyes had seen too much death and suffering to ever be innocent again.
His only consolation was the men he killed had it coming. They were robbers, rapists, arsonists, murderers.
He wasn’t arrogant enough to consider himself some sort of avenging angel delivering justice. If he was working for any higher power, it was Lucifer, reaping more souls to be plunged, screaming, into the depths of Hades.
Luckily, there were a few moments of humanity here and there, or he might have gone insane.
Deadwood, 1877
The gold rush that had caused the town to spring into existence a year earlier had dwindled away as mining syndicates and corporations moved in and, for the most part, replaced the individual prospectors who had sunk shafts in the sides of the gulches all around the settlement. It still had its rough edges, though, and enough vice to attract men from all over, including those on the run from the law.
Luke rode in on the trail of a man named Robert Fescoe, who had killed a bank teller during a robbery down in Yankton. Fescoe was reported to be heading west, and Luke hoped the fugitive paused long enough in Deadwood to get drunk and find himself a whore.
Those two things didn’t sound that bad to Luke, either, although he wasn’t one to indulge his baser appetites indiscriminately. However, a man couldn’t j
ust sit and read during all his spare time.
He stopped at a livery stable, and as he turned his horse over to the hostler, he asked, “Have you seen a tall, skinny fellow with a half-moon-shaped scar on his chin?” Luke was grateful for the outlaw’s scar because it made him easy to describe.
The hostler frowned in thought and shook his head. “Can’t say as I have, mister.”
“He would have ridden in within the last day or two,” Luke added.
“Nope. Sorry.”
“Is this the only livery stable in town?”
The hostler chuckled. “I wish it was. I’d make a lot more money that way. No, there are three or four more. Maybe the hombre you’re lookin’ for left his hoss at one of them.”
“Maybe so.” Luke flipped a five-dollar gold piece to the man, who caught it deftly. “That ought to cover my bill for a while . . . and buy your discretion if you happen to see the man I’m looking for.”
“If you mean I won’t say nothin’ to him about you lookin’ for him, you’re danged right about that. I’ll even come see if I can find you.”
“I’d be much obliged,” Luke told him. “Meanwhile, what’s the best place in town to get a drink?”
The hostler scratched his beard-stubbled jaw. “Well, there’s the Bella Union. It’s pretty nice. Or the Gem, which ain’t as nice, but their whiskey is good and they got some fine whores. Folks tend to get shot there from time to time, though.”
“An all-too-common occurrence.”
“Or there’s a new place you could try. It’s called the Buffalo Butt.”
Luke had to laugh. “What a name for a saloon!”
“Yeah, I don’t know why the gal who owns it decided to call it that. She don’t look like a buffalo’s hind end, I can tell you that for dang sure. She’s one of the prettiest gals in Deadwood, I’d say.”
“Well, that certainly sounds intriguing. I’ll give it a try.” Luke lifted a hand in farewell and left the livery stable.
It didn’t take him long to find the Buffalo Butt Saloon. Despite the crude name, it appeared to be a well-furnished and successful establishment, sitting at an intersection with its batwinged entrance right at the corner so it was easily visible from both streets.
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