Journey into Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  Odell shoved his gun back into the shoulder holster, stared at the woman for long moments, and then backhanded her across the face. “Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier? What kind of person are you?”

  A trickle of blood ran from the corner of Alva’s mouth. “I was afraid to tell you.”

  Odell’s hand moved up the slope of the woman’s shoulder and then to her neck. He gently placed his thumb on her throat and said, “Tell me about the night Sarah Hollis died. Tell me what you saw when you came out back to show the cowboy the outhouse.” The gunman smiled. “Tell me about that, Alva. I promise, if you do I won’t hurt you real bad.”

  “I didn’t see anything. It was dark. Too dark.”

  Odell increased his thumb pressure and the woman made a small, gagging sound in her throat.

  “What did you see, Alva?”

  “You ... I saw you. I didn’t tell the sheriff. I knew if I told the sheriff you’d come around here and kill me.”

  “Well that’s bad news, Alva. For you, I mean. I can’t let you live. You could put a noose around my neck.”

  “I won’t tell, Drugo.” The woman was terrified and it showed in her eyes. “Honest, I won’t sell you out. I’ll leave Dodge today, go far away, to the Indian Territory maybe. I got kinfolk live with the Choctaw and they’ll take me in.”

  “Way too thin, Alva. I can’t take the chance.”

  “Drugo, you can depend on me.” Alva placed her hand on Odell’s cheek. “You can trust me to carry the gate key.”

  Odell smiled. “Trust a black? Not in this lifetime.”

  The gunman was small and looked almost frail, but that was deceptive. He had considerable strength in his gun hand, the one that squeezed Alva’s throat. The woman was big and robust and she struggled, but Odell’s hand was like a vise. He throttled the life out of her and when it was done, he looked down at her sprawled body and smiled.

  “Dead women tell no tales, Alva. The Choctaw would have told you that.” Odell giggled. He enjoyed killing. It made him feel good inside. Like vanilla ice cream.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Shall we take a stroll and see the sights?” Kate said.

  Her son Trace pushed his plate away. “After finishing every scrap of this porterhouse I could use a walk.”

  She looked at her segundo. “What about you, Frank?”

  “Sets fine with me.” Frank smiled at Trace. “I’d rather clothe you for a year than feed you for a month.”

  “He’s a growing boy, Frank,” Kate said. “And you did all right yourself.”

  “Good grub in this hotel, Kate. Surprised me.”

  “Then shall we go?” Kate dabbed her mouth with her napkin and rose to her feet. “It sounds quite lively outside tonight.”

  When she and the others stepped out of the hotel into Front Street she was proved correct. Every saloon and dance hall was bursting at the seams and the melodies from competing pianos tangled in the air like strands of silver barbed wire. Brightly lit windows cast rectangles of orange light onto the boardwalks and gleamed on the muddy street like wet paint. Cowboys were everywhere, the huge rowels of their Texas spurs chiming like bells.

  Kate stopped to talk with a street vendor, an elderly woman with black, Gypsy eyes. She wore an embroidered shawl and said she hailed from County Cork and had lived in the United States since the Great Famine.

  “And what are those you’re selling?” Kate said.

  The old woman said they were called butterfly cakes and were a great favorite of old Queen Vic.

  “Now that’s a coincidence. I bake a sponge cake that’s also one of her favorites.”

  The old woman nodded. “Milk, butter, flour, and eggs. That’s what you need for a sponge cake.”

  “And fresh cream and jam for the filling.”

  “Indeed that is so,” the old woman said. “You’re a beautiful woman, lady, but you’ve had sorrow in your life. I can see it in your eyes. Well, here’s a cure for sorrow. Have one of my butterfly cakes with my compliments and for the sake of the auld country.”

  The little cake had two arcs of pastry placed into the cream topping and Kate ate it delicately and declared it wonderful. She insisted on paying the woman and then she bowed her head as the old lady made the sign of the cross over her and said her blessing would protect Kate from harm.

  As they continued their stroll along the boardwalk Frank said, “I guess I should tell you that you’ve got a blob of cream at the tip of your nose.”

  “I’ll get it, Ma.” Trace stood in front of Kate and used a corner of his bandana to get the cream off her nose . . . and in doing so, he took the bullet intended for his mother.

  * * *

  Trace Kerrigan cried out as the bullet burned across his shoulder blades and shattered an oil lamp burning outside an apothecary. A river of flame immediately ran down the wall and spread across the boardwalk. Illuminated by fire, Trace ignored his wound and pulled his mother to a crouching position. Colt in hand, Frank had already sprinted across Front Street to an alley opposite. The sound of gunfire was not rare in Dodge City, but a curious crowd gathered on the boardwalk and surrounded Kate and her wounded son. Calls for Sheriff Hinkle and a doctor rang out and a man and woman from the apothecary beat at the oil lamp flames with straw brooms.

  Frank knew better than to run into an alley where an armed would-be assassin lurked. He slowed to a walk and entered on cat feet, his eyes reaching into the darkness. The moon splashed an opalescent light on the top half of the store wall to his left, but the end of the alley was shadowed. He moved forward slowly, his gun up and ready.

  From behind him, a man yelled, “Hey, what’s going on there?”

  Immediately, a rifle roared like rolling thunder in the narrow confines of the alley and chips of wood splintered from the timber wall inches above Frank’s right shoulder. He was dazzled by the flash of the rifle but he fired, fired again. Ahead of him, a man cried out in pain and shock, followed by the sound of dragging feet.

  Frank went after him, his boots clanking on the empty whiskey bottles that littered the alley floor.

  The man at the entrance to the alley yelled again. “Here, stop the shooting!”

  Frank thought he sounded drunk and ignored him.

  The alley ended at the blank wall of a warehouse of some kind. Passageways led to the left and right, but a rickety tower of packing cases blocked the one to the right. Frank moved to his left. Between the rear of the store and the wall of the warehouse, the passageway was narrow, only a few feet wide. Ahead of him he heard a curse and a shadow moved awkwardly, as though a man had tripped and stumbled forward. Frank snapped off a shot, aware that he could have fired on some drunk who’d wandered onto the scene. He heard a grunt.

  A man’s voice said, “For God’s sake, mister, don’t shoot me no more.”

  “State your intentions.”

  “Damn it, I’m shot through and through. I don’t have any intentions.”

  “Drop the rifle and step forward,” Frank said. “And I warn you, I can drill ya from here.”

  “Hell, I can’t walk. I’m dying here. I need a priest.” The man’s voice was weak, barely a whisper heard in darkness. “You’ve done for me.”

  “Stay right where you are. I see any sign of a fancy move from you, pardner, I’ll cut loose.”

  A louder voice came from behind him. “Don’t shoot, Cobb. It’s Sheriff Hinkle.”

  Footsteps sounded as the lawman emerged from the gloom. He held a scattergun in his hands. “Mrs. Kerrigan said somebody took a pot at her son. He got burned across the back, but he’ll be all right.”

  “I think the shot was intended for Kate,” Frank said. “She’s been prying into Sarah Hollis’s murder and somebody in this town wants her dead. I plugged the shooter and he’s laying wounded right there ahead of us. Maybe he’ll tell us something.”

  “Is he out of it?” Hinkle said.

  “He says so.”

  “Never trust a wolf till it’s sk
un, Cobb. You ever hear that before?”

  “Yeah, I have. All right. Let’s take a look. Keep the Greener handy.”

  As Hinkle walked forward, his hands opening and closing on the shotgun, he said, “Any chance Mrs. Kerrigan might consider leaving Dodge real soon? And if that sounds hopeful, it is.”

  “She’s got the bit in her teeth over Hank Lowery,” Frank said. “Once she proves him innocent, she’ll leave.”

  “Then I’ll hang him sooner than I planned.” Hinkle turned and yelled, “One of you men bring a lantern up here.” And then to Frank, “Then we’ll go see who the hell you shot and hope he ain’t a friend of mine.”

  * * *

  Reaching the wounded man, Hinkle took a knee beside him and held the lantern high.

  “Recognize him?” Frank said.

  “Uh-uh. Never seen him before. What’s your name, feller?”

  “Am I gonna die, Sheriff?” the man said.

  “Seems like,” Hinkle said. “You got two chest wounds and one of your lungs is sucking air. Best you make your peace with God.”

  “My name is Adam Cook. I was born and raised on a farm north of here before I fell in with low companions and came to this pass.”

  “Who told you to shoot Kate Kerrigan,” Frank said.

  “Man paid me fifty dollars to do for her. I followed her from the hotel and got my chance when she stopped to buy a cake. But the light was so bad in this alley I couldn’t rightly see the gun sights.”

  “Who paid you to kill a woman?” Frank said.

  “A man . . . Sheriff. My name is Adam Cook. Will you remember it? Say it sometimes so I’m not forgotten like I never even was?”

  “I’ll see there’s a marker on your grave with your name on it,” Hinkle said. “I’ll have the undertaker carve it twice. Now who paid you to kill Mrs. Kerrigan?”

  “Man . . . big man . . . fifty dollars . . .”

  After a few moments of silence, Hinkle said, “He’s gone.” He rose to his feet and his knees cracked. “You shot a rube, Cobb. Seems a shame to bury him in them rags he’s wearing. It ain’t decent.”

  Frank looked around him and found the dead man’s rifle. It was a model 1876 Winchester in .45-70 caliber that would cost a puncher a month’s wages.

  “He’s wearing rags, but he carried an expensive rifle,” Frank said. “Find out who gave him this rifle and you’ll discover the ranny who paid to have Kate murdered. I reckon it’s the same man who killed Sarah Hollis.”

  “Hell, Cobb, now you sound like Mrs. Kerrigan,” Hinkle said.

  “Yeah, I do because after tonight I’m inclined to agree with her. You’ll do what you promised for Adam Cook?”

  “Hell no, Cobb. A promise to a dead man doesn’t mean a thing. You know what a marker costs in Dodge?”

  “How much?”

  “With his name on it twice, at least twenty dollars.”

  Frank reached into his pocket and by the light of Hinkle’s lantern counted out a twenty and a ten. “That will pay for it. If there’s any left over, put some flowers on the grave, huh?”

  “You sure put stock in a dead man,” Hinkle said.

  “Hell, he was only a rube.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “How many big men are there in Dodge right now?” Frank already knew what the answer would be and Trace Kerrigan supplied it.

  “A lot, I reckon.” He winced as Kate dabbed something that stung on the bullet burn across his shoulders. “And plenty with fifty dollars to pay for a killing.”

  “Trace, I’m still alive,” Kate said.

  Trace grimaced. “Well, I mean attempted killing.”

  Kate said, “Frank, if the man you shot—”

  “Adam Cook,” said Frank, going out of his way to say the name.

  “Yes, Adam Cook. He really made an effort to say big man, don’t you think? Why would he use his dying breath to say that unless the man who paid him was, well . . . exceptionally big?”

  “More than a few of those in town, Kate,” Frank said.

  “Then that’s where our investigation must begin. When we find the big man we will solve the mystery of Sarah Hollis’s murder and the attempt on my life. I was getting too close to the truth and he panicked. He may panic again.”

  “Kate, Hinkle is set on hanging Hank Lowery,” Frank said. “We can expect no help from him.”

  “No, but we can expect his help to find the man who tried to kill me. My son came within an inch of dying tonight. That ought to spur Sheriff Hinkle into action.”

  Frank smiled. “You’ll be setting spurs to a dead horse, Kate.”

  “No, I won’t. I will make my voice heard and force Hinkle to do his job. He won’t hang an innocent man on my watch, Frank.”

  Trace flexed his muscular young shoulders. “Damn, that hurts.”

  “I know it hurts, Trace, but we will have no profanity. Leave Frank to handle that side of the business since he does it so very well.” Kate picked up the calico kitten. “Isn’t that so, snookums?” The little animal purred and kneaded the front of Kate’s dress.

  “Snookums? Is that what you plan to call the cat?” Frank said.

  “No. I thought Gertrude, but I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “Back home we have a barn full of cats,” Trace said.

  “But none of them is a calico,” Kate said. “Do you know what they call calicos? Well, I’ll tell you. They’re called money cats because they attract good financial fortune to your home.”

  “Cats make me sneeze,” Frank said. “I think I’ll turn in, Kate. It’s been a long day and a longer night.”

  She looked up. “Killing that man is wearing on you. Isn’t it, Frank?”

  “Seems like. He was a rube. He knew nothing about gun fighting.”

  “He was a rube who tried his best to kill me, Frank . . . and you,” she said. “Just look at Trace’s back . . . another inch . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. But killing a man like him—a pumpkin roller—doesn’t set right with me.”

  “A killing never sets right with any normal person,” Kate said. “And I speak from experience. Frank, tonight I’ll say a rosary for the soul of Adam Cook, and I’ll say one for you, too.”

  Frank, not a churchgoing man, seemed a little taken aback by Kate’s piety and Trace stepped into the awkward silence that followed. “Frank, before you turn in, I have an idea.”

  “We can use all the ideas we can get,” Frank said, jumping on the young man’s words. He seemed glad to talk.

  “Well, it’s more of a suggestion than an idea.”

  “Then let’s hear it.”

  “The only one of us from the KK ranch who has seen anything of the town is Hank Lowery. Maybe we should ask him if he saw any exceptionally big men . . .” Realizing how weak that sounded, Trace’s voice petered out into a whisper. “I mean in the saloons.”

  “He saw a tin man,” Frank said, smiling. “He was big.”

  Kate said, “Frank, don’t tease. Trace is right. We should talk to Hank. I know it’s a long shot, but we’re all here and willing enough to clutch at straws.

  “Hinkle is the one to talk to,” Frank said. “But I don’t think he’s much inclined to help Lowery escape the noose.”

  “When we question Hank we’ll also talk to the sheriff,” Kate said. “Who knows, between them both we might learn something.”

  “Like you said, Kate, clutching at straws.”

  Kate nodded, her lovely face unnaturally pale and still. “Yes, a wispy little straw . . . all that stands between Hank Lowery and the gallows.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “There hasn’t been a whore murder in Dodge for the past three years,” Sheriff George Hinkle said. “Now I got two in the same week.”

  “George, why am I here?” Bat Masterson said.

  “Because I need your help.”

  “You beat me out for sheriff in the last election and I hold a grudge forever,” Bat said. “Nobody ever tell you that? Why should I h
elp you?”

  “Because I’m a politician, not a lawman like you, and I’m not gun handy. I need your help, Bat. Want me to put it in writing?”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea, at that. Hey, good citizens of Dodge, the man you elected sheriff now needs help from the man he defeated. That would look real good in the newspapers.”

  “Then do you want me to beg?” Hinkle said.

  “No, I guess not. I can’t stand to see a grown man cry. I’ll help you, George, but only until the cards start to fall my way again. I’ve been trying to outrun a losing streak since Luke Short quit town and took my luck with him.” Bat wore a bowler hat, a caped Inverness coat over his long nightshirt and carpet slippers. It was two in the morning and Hinkle had wakened him from a sound sleep. Bat turned and said to an older man who wore a deputy’s star, “Bring the lamp closer.”

  In flickering amber light that cast shadows in the corners of Alva Cranley’s tiny room, Bat Masterson lifted the dead woman’s skirt and petticoats. “Rape wasn’t the reason she was strangled. She’s still wearing her drawers and her corset is laced. How was the other girl killed?”

  “Knife,” Hinkle felt no need to elaborate.

  “Was she raped?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You should determine these things.”

  “Sarah Hollis was a harlot.”

  “What was the state of her clothing?”

  Hinkle nodded to Alva’s body. “Like hers.”

  “You told me you’d arrested somebody for Sarah Hollis’s murder,” Bat said.

  “Yeah. I aim to hang him for Sarah’s murder. Man by the name of Hank Lowery. Remember the Longdale Massacre?”

  Bat nodded. “I’ve heard of that. He handled himself well if it’s the same Lowery.”

  “It is.”

  “Did he escape from your jail, George?”