Journey into Violence

by William W. Johnstone

  Masterson smiled and echoed Frank’s thought. “Ol’ Drugo might have skinned it.” His Colt came out from under his cape. “I had my gun in my hand. I might have shaded him.”

  “We’ve had enough killing around here, Bat,” Hinkle said. “Put the iron away and get out of the rain.”

  Masterson looked at Kate. “Mrs. Kerrigan, there’s a Chinese teahouse not far from here where they serve the most delicious little cakes. Would you and your friends care to join me?” And then to Hinkle, “Sorry, George, you’re not invited since you have to stand guard over the dead man.”

  “I’d love a cup of tea,” Kate said. “Mr. Masterson, this is my son, Trace, and Frank Cobb, my segundo.”

  “From time to time I heard about you, Frank,” Bat said, his face expressionless.

  “And I you,” Frank said. “Small world.”

  Masterson nodded. “The West is vast, but there’s a certain breed of men who are few in number though we tend to hear much about them.” He unbuckled his cloak and, with a fine flourish, draped it around Kate’s shoulders.” “This will keep you dry, dear lady.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Masterson. Indeed, you are very gracious.”

  “Ah, but how easy it is to be gracious to a beautiful woman. And please call me Bat. Everyone else does.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Is the tea to your liking, Mrs. Kerrigan?” Masterson said.

  “It’s excellent, Bat. And the little cakes are delicious, so delicately flavored. If you ever get down to Texas, you must visit my ranch and I’ll bake a sponge cake for you. Sponge cake with a cream and jam filling is a favorite of Queen Victoria, you know.”

  “How interesting. Now I am really looking forward to your baking.”

  “I only bake sponge cake, I’m afraid, nothing else,” Kate said.

  “Then that will more than suffice, I’m sure.”

  Frank envied Masterson’s easy way with women. Kate seemed to enjoy his charm and fine manners, of which Frank had neither. Even holding the china teacup in his big, work-hardened hand was a chore, and he was sure if he held the little cup too firmly it would shatter like an eggshell. To his embarrassment, he’d already tried to pick up one of the tiny, delicate rice cakes and left it a crumbled mess on the plate. Beside him, Trace seemed totally at ease, enjoying Masterson’s company.

  Frank’s misery increased. For the first time in his life he was actually jealous of another man. Bat Masterson would be an easy ranny to hate . . . if he wasn’t so all-fired charming.

  “I’ve always been much enamored of the Chinese,” Bat said. “Look around you, Mrs. Kerrigan. Lanterns of all colors and shapes, paintings of birds and pretty ladies on the walls, delicate, lacquered furniture. We might well be in a teashop in Cathay itself.”

  “The chimes and tinkling bells are so soothing,” Kate said. “And the scent of incense is divine.”

  “Sandalwood, I think,” Masterson said. “But there is also a hint of jasmine. More tea, Frank?”

  Rather than let the cup beat him, Frank laid it on the table and Masterson poured from a blue and white teapot with a painting of a man and a woman crossing a wooden bridge.

  “Rice cake?” Bat said.

  “No thanks,” Frank said.

  “They’re very good, Frank,” Kate said. “Do try a pink one. They have a rosewater flavor.”

  Bat Masterson’s smile was the equivalent of an amused wink and Frank wasn’t about to let him win. Using his thumb and forefinger, he gingerly picked up a cake about as big around as a silver dollar, but before he could transfer it to his mouth, it slipped from his fingers and landed somewhere on his crotch. “Damn.”

  Bat grinned, but covered his mouth with his hand.

  Kate was watching Frank. She smiled and said that hands accustomed to ropes, reins, and branding irons were not made for rice cakes. She took a pink one from the plate and said, “Frank, open your mouth and close your eyes and you will get a big surprise.”

  Frank’s misery and embarrassment could get no worse, so he did as Kate said and she popped the cake into his mouth. After she watched him chew, she asked if it was good.

  Frank thought that it tasted like newsprint, but he smiled and said, “It’s real good, Kate.”

  A bell jangled as the front door opened and Sheriff George Hinkle stepped inside.

  “Thank God,” Frank said under his breath.

  Hinkle made his way to the table. Rain ran down his black oilskin and his hat brim ticked water onto the table. Irritated, Masterson quickly moved the cakes away from the cascade.

  “The dead man’s name was Morgan Braddock and he’s been in town only a few days.” Hinkle picked up a rice cake and effortlessly tossed it into his mouth. He ate another before Bat glared at him, scowled, and slid the plate away from him and in front of Kate.

  “How do you know this?” Frank said.

  “Old wanted dodger in the sheriff’s office.” Hinkle didn’t bother to explain further. He didn’t need to hear himself talk. “He was a hired gun.”

  “Who hired him?” Kate said.

  “Hell if I know, Mrs. Kerrigan.”

  “Then you must find out, Sheriff. Now there are two lives at stake—Hank Lowery’s and mine.”

  Hinkle nodded and water poured off his hat onto the table. “Strange things happening in Dodge this cattle season. Did you know the tin man is back up and running? Saw him earlier tonight.” He looked around and saw blank faces. “Ah well, I thought it was interesting.” To Masterson, he said, “Tell me about Dora Blueberry.”

  “Redberry,” Bat said.

  “All right. Tell me about her instead.”

  “She worked as a prostitute in Tombstone in the Arizona Territory. She claimed to be descended from Russian aristocracy and in fact she could speak Russian fluently . . . or what sounded like Russian to me.”

  “Not much call for a Russian speaker in Tombstone,” Hinkle said.

  “No, I reckon not,” Masterson said. “She was a pretty girl though—yellow hair and blue eyes—and she could sing and dance.”

  “Cut to the chase, Bat,” Hinkle said.

  A small thin Chinese man wearing a round black hat bustled up to the table, glared at Hinkle, and said to Kate, “This man bothering you, missy?”

  Kate smiled. “No, he’s not, but thank you for asking.”

  Hinkle was less polite. “Beat it, Chinaman, or you’ll be eating chop suey in my jail.”

  “Big bully man,” the Chinese said before he glided away, muttering to himself.

  “Cutting to the chase, George, Dora spent a lot of time in the company of Drugo Odell. Maybe it was a love thing, but I doubt it. Sheriff Johnny Behan, a congenital idiot, found Dora’s body behind the Birdcage Theater. She’d been stabbed between her—” He stopped speaking and looked at Kate. “I mean, she’d been stabbed in the chest and had been dead for some time. Behan decided to wait for the doctor’s report as though the cause of death wasn’t pretty damn obvious, and by that time, Odell had lit a shuck for places unknown.”

  “Bat, do you think Odell murdered Dora what’sher-name?” Hinkle asked.

  “Redberry. Yeah, I think he did.”

  “Thinking ain’t proving,” Hinkle said.

  “Sarah Hollis was killed in the same manner, Sheriff.” Then with a mischievous smile, Kate added, “A knife between her tits.”

  Hinkle’s eyes widened. “Yes, yes she was, Mrs. Kerrigan. I’ll talk with Odell and hear what he has to say.”

  “He’ll deny Dora’s murder,” Masterson said.

  “What did Behan think about the girl’s death?” Hinkle said.

  “He didn’t think anything. Dora was a whore and he let her murderer go. He was dealing with the Earp boys at the time and had more important things on his mind.”

  Talking amid a rumble of distant thunder, Kate said, “Sheriff, is it possible that Odell murdered Dora Redberry, Sarah Hollis, and Alva Cranley?”

  For the first time Hinkle revealed some doubt.
“It’s possible, Mrs. Kerrigan. Anything is possible. But now I ask myself the question, who is trying to kill you? Drugo Odell would hardly have walked into his own ambush.”

  Kate said, “But it can only be Odell . . . somehow. There’s no one else.”

  “Sheriff, are you going to release Hank Lowery?” Trace said.

  “No, not yet. Not until I get this thing settled.”

  “When will that be?” Trace said.

  “Young man, your guess is as good as mine.”

  “But in the meantime, Hank Lowery could hang.”

  Hinkle said. “I guess he’ll have to take his chances like the rest of us.”

  After Hinkle left, Frank Cobb said, “I reckon if we want to save Hank Lowery’s life we’ll have to bust him out of the juzgado.”

  “Bad idea,” Masterson said. “As lawmen go, George Hinkle isn’t much of a sheriff, but he’s never lost a prisoner and I’ve never known him to back down. If he has to, he’ll kill Lowery without a moment’s hesitation. And there’s another thing. If you want Lowery, you’ll have to step over George’s dead body.”

  “No, no, we don’t want that,” Kate said.

  “No you don’t,” Bat said. “I told the sheriff that I’d help him with this investigation and I plan to keep my word. Kate, I think we forget your puncher for a spell and concentrate on Drugo Odell . . . and hope to God that our guns don’t jam.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bat Masterson’s talk about Dora Redberry had shaken Drugo Odell to the core. He dropped all his plans regarding the taming of Nelly Wilde since he could no longer take the chance on drawing some unwelcome attention, especially if he chose to kill her. Too nervous to eat, he settled for coffee in the crowded Dodge House Restaurant, where he could take refuge behind his newspaper.

  The Dodge Times had the story of last night’s shooting scrape on their front page, and as usual got it all wrong.

  DEADLY DOINGS IN DODGE

  THE READY REVOLVER DOES ITS WORK

  Robber Hurled Into Eternity In a Moment

  Sheriff Hinkle Praises Valor of Armed Citizen

  Drake Ordell, a well-known sporting gent of this town, shot down a would-be robber as the gallant Mr. Ordell and his schoolteacher sweetheart promenaded along Front Street.

  A few mangled details of the shooting followed and the piece ended with, “The dead man was identified by Sheriff Hinkle as Morton Bradshaw, a desperate character, much given to whiskey and rowdy behavior. The Times’ only comment is to wish the rogue’s sable shade a hearty good riddance.”

  Odell smiled behind his newsprint barricade, the thought of Nellie Wilde as a schoolteacher amusing him greatly. What would she teach? Her occupation? Plus whiskey and wantonness probably. He had no time to ponder his questions because someone sat heavily on the chair opposite and flicked his newspaper with a finger. Odell lowered the paper.

  A big, rough-hewn, and unshaven man scowled at him. “Me and you need to talk.”

  * * *

  Kate dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “The scrambled eggs were quite acceptable, the overcooked bacon was not. Has it occurred to you, Mr. Masterson, as it has to me, that perhaps Morgan Braddock was acting on his own?”

  “You mean that he murdered the two women?”

  “Yes, and possibly Dora Redberry.”

  Bat shook his head. “The word around town is that Braddock was a hired killer. His only other interest seemed to be gambling and he wasn’t very good at it. Braddock was a professional and he didn’t kill those women. There was no profit in it.” He forked a piece of bacon into his mouth and said around a chew, “Hired assassins don’t draw attention to themselves. They drift into a town like ghosts, make the kill, and drift out again.”

  “Then again that leaves only Drugo Odell.”

  “Sticks out like a bandaged thumb, don’t he?”

  * * *

  “You’ll have a fast horse and five hundred dollars traveling money,” the big man said.

  “If I make the Kerrigan kill I want a fast horse and fifteen hundred traveling money,” Odell negotiated. “Pretty woman like that should be kept around, barefoot and naked most of the time. Why do you want her dead?”

  “I have my reasons,” the big man said. “Right now they’re none of your concern.”

  “You hired Morgan Braddock to kill Kate Kerrigan,” Odell said. “The damn idiot tried to kill me and a redheaded whore.”

  “Mistaken identity,” the big man said. “It happens.”

  “I won’t make the same mistake,” Odell said. “That is ... if I accept the contract.”

  “You’ll accept the contract. I agree to the fifteen hundred.” The big man looked around him and leaned closer to Odell. “Don’t mess with Bat Masterson, Odell. He’s got a nose like a bloodhound. I got a feeling the feller in the jail ain’t gonna hang for killing the whores, but there’s a good chance somebody else will. Maybe a ranny who least expects it. Maybe that somebody should think about putting a heap of git between himself and Dodge while the gittin’s good.”

  “I didn’t kill them,” Odell said.

  “Yes, you did, but I don’t give a damn,” the big man said. “I need Kate Kerrigan dead. Do you want the job or no?”

  “Two thousand and I want the horse ready at the livery when the job is done.”

  “You come high.”

  “Kate Kerrigan isn’t a two-dollar prostitute.”

  “No, she’s a rancher and she’s got powerful friends. Odell, make it look good, and be damn sure the killing can’t be traced back to me.”

  “I’ve contract killed before. Protecting the client’s identity comes with the job.”

  “Good. Now listen up. Go to the front desk of the Dodge House at four this afternoon and ask for the package someone left for you. Inside you’ll find a thousand dollars. When it’s over and Kate Kerrigan is dead, the other thousand will be in the saddlebags of a roan horse at the livery.”

  “And then?”

  “And then you get the hell out of Dodge and don’t ever come back.”

  “Your terms are acceptable. I don’t know your name.”

  “And you don’t need to know it.” The big man rose to his feet. “Just take care of business, you hear?”

  “You can depend on me,” Drugo Odell said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Maddox Franklin left his post at the end of the Top Hat bar and stepped to the table where Bat Masterson was in conversation with Nellie Wilde.

  The girl had recovered from her experience but had prevailed upon Bat to buy her a brandy. “For my nerves, like.” She couldn’t tell him much about Drugo Odell that he didn’t already know, but she was pretty enough and smelled nice.

  He lingered longer than he’d intended.

  “Hey, Bat, seems like your friend George Hinkle’s got himself some trouble,” Franklin said.

  “What kind of trouble?” Masterson said.

  “Look out the window.”

  Bat excused himself to Nellie, who didn’t seem to care overly much, and stepped to the window where he had a clear view of the sheriff’s office. He’d seen a lynch mob before and it looked just like the one on the street.

  “Seems like they intend to string up that jasper you’ve taken an interest in,” Franklin said. “What’s his name?”

  “Hank Lowery.”

  “Looks like he’ll soon be Hung Lowery,” Franklin said.

  “I’d better get over there,” Masterson said. “Hinkle is sure to make a bad situation worse.”

  “Wait. I’ll come with you. Let me get my gun.”

  Bat was surprised. “You don’t need to take a hand in this, Maddox.”

  “I know. But I’m bored. Being a saloonkeeper isn’t as exciting as I thought it would be. A lot of standing around mostly.”

  “Not like being a Texas Ranger, huh?”

  “That job was ninety percent boredom, as well.”

  Maddox said something to the bartender and the man passed hi
m his holstered Colt and a scattergun. He handed the Greener to Bat and then buckled his gun belt around his hips and grinned. “Right. Let’s go raise some hell in Dodge City and be somebody.”

  * * *

  Kate had said her rosary and was about to get into bed when someone knocked on her door. She picked up the Colt from the nightstand and said, “Who is it?”

  “Kate, it’s me, Frank. We got ourselves some trouble.”

  “Hold on.” Kate put on her dressing gown and opened the door. “Come in, Frank. What’s happened?”

  He stepped into the room. “Lynch mob outside the jail. The desk clerk is waking everybody so they can come join in the fun.”

  “Oh sweet Jesus preserve us! Is Hank all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Trace stepped into the room and looked at Frank. “I see you’ve already been told.”

  Kate tightened her robe around her, slipped her feet into slippers, and picked up the Colt again. “Let’s go.”

  “But Ma, you aren’t decent.”

  “No I’m not decent. And my hair is tied back for war.”

  “There speaks the Irish warrior princess,” Frank said, grinning.

  “Damn right,” said Kate.

  * * *

  Sheriff Hinkle tried to placate the crowd of two score men who faced him outside the jail, half of them Texas punchers nearly drunk and up for any diversion. “Whoever told you I was releasing Hank Lowery is a damn liar. Where is he? Show yourself.”

  “We were told you’d say something like that,” a gray-haired man said. “Now get that woman-killer out here or we’ll come in after him.”

  A half-drunk puncher yelled, “That jasper ain’t goin’ nowhere except the nearest crossbeam. We all know about what he done in Longdale . . . all them women and children he murdered an’ scalped.”

  That drew cheers and the mob surged forward, one man waving a noosed rope above his head.

  “Damn you. I’ll kill the first man who tries to enter this jail.” Hinkle’s Colt was holstered, but he carried a shotgun.