by Neil Hunter
He found he was thinking about Ruby Keough. Almost hearing her voice as she chided him for letting himself weaken. Her strong presence as she waved a finger at him and told him to keep going and not let the weather get the better of him. Even in his soporific state he knew it was just his imagination getting the better of him. Yet Ruby’s strong character overrode his caution and her persistence dragged him back to a cohesive state of mind. Enough to make him aware of his surroundings. Enough to snap him from the weariness that was slowly pulling him down.
He felt the motion of his horse cease. Raised his head and saw the dark outline of a building. It appeared to drift in and out of his vision. Solid then wavering, out of focus, then a moving shape looking up at him. Bodie heard a mumbled sound that could have been a man’s voice. He dropped his hand to lift his holstered gun but near-frozen fingers were unable to grip it. He felt the horse move again, slowly and he became aware the fall of snow had gone.
Hands reached up to drag him from his saddle and Bodie was unable to hold himself upright. He almost fell. He was half-dragged somewhere. The layers of snow covering him breaking away. The sodden blankets were pulled from him. He was guided to a chair and felt blessed heat reaching from somewhere. He slumped back, eyes half-closed, letting the heat wash over him. A mug of steaming coffee was pushed into his hands and he gripped it as much as his numb fingers would allow before raising the mug to his chilled lips. Even in his semi-conscious state the coffee tasted good and he swallowed it down.
Far away he heard a voice but was unable to make out the words. He drank more coffee and allowed himself to be lulled by the heat reaching out to him. Bodie wanted to rouse himself. To move even though the warmth was too much and he simply drifted into an exhausted sleep, darkness smothering him...
Twenty-Three
Bodie came out of it with a snap of light and sound. Eyes opening. He stared around him as he became aware of his surroundings.
He was in a bed. Covered by warming blankets. A pillow under his head. The room was plain. Just a bed and a few pieces of furniture. The door at the far end of the room. A stone fireplace showed him logs burning in the hearth. Beyond a window across from where he lay was showing daylight with snow still falling.
Bodie lay still as his senses cleared. The first thing he became aware of was his nakedness under the covers. He looked around the room. None of his clothes were in sight. He only saw his boots next to solid wooden chair. That and his coiled gun rig and his rifle.
Sound beyond the door made him look in that direction. When the door opened he recognized the store keeper. Len Capshaw. The man was carrying a bundle of folded clothes.
‘You feeling rested?’ Capshaw said. ‘I figure you could eat by now.’
‘How long have I been here?’
Capshaw placed the clothes on the chair.
‘From the store,’ he said. ‘Clothes you were wearing were near frozen on you. And they weren’t what you left in, so I figured you needed a fresh outfit. Since Mart Ketchum brought me to help you from the livery, you were pretty near frozen yourself. We got you here and gave you a hot bath, then put you in bed. Kept you warm.’ Capshaw moved to stand over him. ‘How’re you feeling, Bodie ?’
‘How did I...?’
‘Get back to Sorrow? That pony you were riding came from the livery. Come to home like an old hound dog. Done it before.’
Bodie edged up on the pillow. ‘Appears I owe that old man. And that horse. Same for you, Mr. Capshaw. I admit I was in a sorry state out there.’
‘Bodie, after we spoke and before you kind of disappeared I got to thinking. You took a hell of a risk coming into Sorrow the way you did.’
Bodie scrubbed a hand to his unshaven jaw.
‘Answer me a question, Mr. Capshaw. Did anyone see I’d come back to town? See you and Ketchum bring me to your store?’
Capshaw shook his head. ‘This snowstorm has kept everyone inside for the last day or so. The fall has made it so a body can barely see a hand in front of his face. That important?’
‘If it’s true then only you and Ketchum know I’m back.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘Because when I left Sorrow it was under the gun of a feller called Benedict.’
‘Lew Benedict? One of Markham’s bully boys. What was that all about?’
‘He rode out of town set on making sure I really got lost out there. He almost made it happen. Would have done if I hadn’t turned things around.’
‘You fought him? Did you...’
‘We tangled. That’s where the marks on my face came from. I left him face down in a creek. Unless he can breathe under water he’s dead.’
Capshaw reached up to touch the livid bruise on his cheek. An unconscious gesture that was a reminder of a personal memory.
‘Hope you’re not going to tell me you walked into a door,’ Bodie said.
‘Just message from Markham. A reminder because I’m standing my ground over his attempt to sell on my business. Happened while you were out of town. He’s becoming impatient. Threats hadn’t worked so he resorted to a more direct method.’
‘Every time a problem comes up in Sorrow,’ Bodie said, ‘his name is not far behind.’
‘Like I already told you Markham wants Sorrow in his back pocket. Mart Ketchum is under the same threat.’
‘I figured he’s not too much in favor of the man.’
‘If he had his way and was a lot younger he would have stood up to Markham already.’
‘Mr. Capshaw...’
‘Forget the Mr.. Name’s Len. Why don’t you get yourself dressed while I fix you something to eat. We can talk then.’
Left alone Bodie took his time stirring and pulling on the new, dry clothing. He stamped his feet into his dried out boots before making his way to the kitchen, strapping on his gunbelt and checking the Colt. The aroma of cooking bacon and coffee led him through to where Capshaw was plating up the food. He sat at the substantial table as Capshaw brought the food.
‘You just dig in,’ he said. ‘I already ate.’
The bacon, eggs and fried potatoes needed no second suggestion. A steaming mug of hot coffee followed as Bodie set to. Capshaw took a seat across from Bodie a mug of his own clutched in his hand. He allowed the comfortable silence to last for a couple of minutes before he spoke.
‘Sorrow is in trouble,’ he said. ‘Brought on by Markham. He’s got this town backed against the wall and he ain’t about to step away until he gets what he wants.’
‘As you said the town and the lumber business.’
‘He already has most of the timber concessions in his pocket. If he gets the town too he’s going to be in a powerful position. Sorrow’s mill is the most productive for miles around. Has the most up to date equipment. Demand for timber is growing. For buildings. Manufacture. Ties for the railroads. Demand is at an all-time high and Lance Markham is taking everything he can get his hands on. The man’s greed is phenomenal. And he has his own people to back him. Vince Bascombe and his crew.’
Capshaw moved to refill his mug. Topped up Bodie’s.
‘I can guess your next question. We’ve thought about fighting back but, hell, look at us. We’re store keepers. Plain and simple workers. Not gun hands like Markham employs. And there are women and kids to consider. Not many I grant you, but we can’t put any of them at risk. And up here we are away from any kind of immediate help. On our own while Markham plays his hand. What can people here do?’
‘ Henry Purcell tried.’
‘And what good did it do him. Just a charge of murder. The man had to run because there wasn’t a thing anyone in Sorrow could do to help him.’
‘The town believe he’s guilty?’
Capshaw considered an answer. Paused to stare at Bodie.
‘I don’t consider myself a particularly clever man, Mr. Dean. But even I can see things do not add up. How would you know about Purcell’s problem if you’ve only been in town a short time? Supposedly a stranger
to Sorrow. I can’t believe you just learned about Henry Purcell. I think it’s time you told me who you really are.’
Bodie took a mouthful of coffee, offered a slight smile, and told Capshaw the whole story.
Twenty-Four
‘Son of a bitch,’ Bascombe said. ‘He had us all fooled. A damn lawdog.’ He rounded on Markham. ‘Now it makes sense. He must have shot Dan Preece when he went out looking for Purcell, then come into town an’ played his innocent Dean card while he checked us out. Looks to me he done for Benedict as well. Stands to reason that’s why Benedict hasn’t come back.’
Markham filled himself a fresh tumbler of whisky. He took it down in one swift swallow. Bascombe’s words made sense.
‘Could be you’re right, Vince.’
‘So now what do we do? If it was down to me I’d walk out there and put him down where he stands. No more of this playing around.’
‘And what would that achieve? He might be dead but the fingers would point directly at us. As much as I want that man dead killing him on the street would expose us outright.’
‘Then what the hell do we do?’
Neither of them had noticed the door open to allow Silvis Bedloe to slip into the office, picking up their conversation. Now he made himself known, a smile on his lips as he spoke.
‘I would decide that quickly,’ he said.
‘Creeping around like that is going to bring you grief, Bedloe,’ Bascombe said. ‘You ever considered knocking first?’
‘Mr. Markham, you will want to hear what I have to say. It’s important.’
Markham raised a hand to silence Bascombe.
‘Tell me, Silvis.’
‘Had a visitor just a while back. Jackson, the telegrapher. Looking for Dean. He had a message for him. Came over the wire but Jackson’s been unable to find Dean. Seems Dean sent a telegraph to San Francisco and wanted any reply brought to him.’
‘Why would Dean be sending to ’Frisco?’ Bascombe said. He turned to Bedloe. ‘Jackson tell you what was in the reply?’
‘No. Jackson said he had to hand the message only to Bodie. Against the law to give that kind of thing out. When I told him Dean wasn’t around Jackson said he’d go back to his office and wait for him. Said I was to let Dean know when I saw him. I figured you’d want to know, Miter Markham.’
‘You were right, Silvis. This won’t go unrewarded. I’ll call by the hotel later.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Markham.’
When Bedloe had left Markham said, ‘It appears our man of mystery is getting himself in even deeper, Vince. Too damn deep.’
‘Time for a walk to the telegraph office,’ Bascombe said. ‘Be interesting to find out what’s in that message waiting for Bodie.’
He pulled on his coat, picked up his hat and walked out of Markham’s office without another word.
Markham took another whisky. Felt the liquor slide down with its customary heat. For once it didn’t work as it should and he slumped in his padded chair behind his desk, staring morosely across the room.
Damn Bodie.
Whatever the man was up to it had to be stopped. There was too much riding on Markham’s operation to allow interference. As much as he was against outright murder it might yet be necessary. Markham had put too much into the planning. The rewards were too big to allow them to be lost. And there were influential parties in the mix as well. Markham couldn’t allow them to be ignored because if they got wind things were possibly being threatened his own life would be under threat too.
Twenty-Five
Vince Bascombe pushed his way through he drifted snow as he crossed town. Shoulders hunched under his thick coat, head down against the wind that threw icy flakes into his face. The day was losing light fast now and darkness was crowding in across Sorrow. He was making his way to the telegraph office, thankful for the continuing snowfall that shrouded the street. Light showed behind windows, throwing diffused patterns on the blanketing snow but there were no people around. The town was deserted and Bascombe found comfort in that.
He took the chance of approaching the office from the rear of buildings when he was closer. Bascombe was not worried about leaving any footprints. Any marks left in the snow would be obliterated quickly enough after he had passed.
From the alley next to the telegraph office Bascombe stepped onto the boardwalk outside the door. He took a quick glance through the office window, making out Jackson’s hunched body as he worked at the operating desk. The man was alone.
Bascombe grasped the handle and pushed the door open. By the time Jackson responded the lawman was inside, closing the door behind him.
‘Marshal,’ Jackson said in greeting. ‘Getting worse out there.’ He watched as Bascombe shook the snow off his coat. ‘There a problem?’
‘Depends on what you do next,’ Bascombe said.
Jackson frowned. ‘I don’t understand...’
‘Ain’t difficult. I just need to read that message you got for Dean.’
Jackson’s frown deepened.
‘Marshal?’
‘Don’t play dumb with me, Cal. You had a message for Dean when you went to the hotel. Told Bedloe you’d hold it until Dean got back. So you still got it. An’ I want to see what it says.’
Jackson swiveled his seat around. ‘Now you know I can’t show it to you. Badge or no, it’s more than my job’s worth to do that.’
‘Hell, Cal, it’s more than your life’s worth, so quit playin’ me for a fool and hand it over.’
Bascombe had unbuttoned his coat. Pulled it open so he could reach for the heavy pistol he carried. Lifted it from the holster and showed its gleaming bulk to Jackson.
‘Jesus, you figure on shooting me? Do that and the town will hear.’
Bascombe managed a toothy grin. ‘I ain’t going to shoot you, Cal. More ways than one to use a gun...’
He swung the reversed weapon and slammed it across Jackson’s head. Jackson uttered a pained cry as the blow thudded against his skull, rearing back in his seat. He had no chance to avoid the next blow that slammed down over his nose, crushing it badly. Blood burst from his nostrils, spilling down across his shirt. He sank back in his seat, clutching at his shattered nose.
In the seconds following Bascombe had turned to the door and worked the bolt, securing it.
‘Still ain’t had my answer,’ Bascombe said. ‘You forgot what I asked?’
Numb with pain, his expression fueled by sheer terror, Jackson simply stared up at the lawmen. His mouth moved silently. Blood was streaming down between his fingers, slick on his lips. He seemed incapable of speaking which only fueled Bascombe’s mood.
‘Goddamn you,’ he said.
Bascombe started to hit Jackson again. Across his face and skull. His self-control vanished and he expressed himself in a wild attack on the helpless man in the seat.
‘I want that goddamn message...’
...Bascombe never knew how long it went on. Only that he found himself standing over the motionless and bloody body of Cal Jackson, clutching his blood streaked Colt, his chest heaving from the exertion, sweat pouring down his face. He stared down at the dead man, sanity slowly returning as he realized what had happened. It had been a long time since he had lost control so badly. He stepped back until the far wall of the small office brought him up short. Took a long look around, his breathing becoming shallower as he gained control.
‘Damn fool should’ve just given me the message.’
He saw the small table nearby that held basin and water jug. Washed his bloody right hand and the weapon he still held. He dried himself with the towel there. Sluiced his face. By the time he was done his breathing had become normal again. Bascombe holstered his gun. Took a look around and spotted the coffee pot on the small stove in one corner. He took a mug and poured himself a brew. Stood drinking as he looked over at the desk where Jackson had worked. Examined the contents. Picked out the slotted pigeon-holes and went through them. And found the sealed envelope with the name Dean wr
itten there. He took the buff envelope and slipped it into his coat pocket. It was then he noticed the dark spots of drying blood there. There were others on his face when he looked in the small mirror on the wall. He washed them off and died his skin. He couldn’t do anything about the spots on his clothing. Bascombe knew they couldn’t be wiped away and shrugged. He would change his coat as soon as he was able.
Calmer now he prepared to leave. Coat fastened he turned. Then paused. The idea had come out of the blue.
Bascombe stood by the stove. Picked up the small can of coal oil Jackson would have used to prime the stove wood when he first lit it. He removed the can top and laid a trail to the door then pooled the rest of the contents near the desk. He lit a twisted sheet of paper and opened the door. Peered out into what was now full dark. He dropped the burning twist of paper into the stream of oil and watched it ignite, creeping along the trail. Unlocking the door he stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him and made his way to the alley at the side of the office, moving without pause as he retraced his steps along the rear of the street. He needed to get back to his own office to change his coat before returning to see Markham and offer him the telegram message Jackson had received. After that they would know what had to be done.
Twenty-Six
‘I’m finding this hard to take in,’ Capshaw said. ‘That you’re actually working to expose Lance Markham. That Henry Purcell has been collecting evidence.’