A Knife in the Heart

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “It’ll take too long to explain,” Fallon said. “They sent a man with a knife after you.”

  “He found me.” Pigate grinned. “Convict Calloway learned that before I heard the Call, I was boxing champ at Fort Griffin. Mr. Calloway ran after feeling my left-right-right-left. Deputies fired warning shots. He stopped. Raised his hands. They’re holding him in the city jail.”

  “I’m familiar with the jail.” He turned to Rachel Renee, dropped to his knee, and put his hands on her shoulders. “Sweetheart, I have to go bring your mom and Mrs. Janice home now. So I want you to go with the Reverend Pigate. He’ll just sit with you at his house. He has a grandson living with him, just a few years older than you. So you’ll be fine. And I’ll be back shortly. But till then, you need to be strong, like your mother, and just wait and be the great girl you always are. Is that all right?”

  She tried to stifle the tears, but a few leaked down her wet face. Fallon hugged her, then stood, and watched his daughter take the preacher’s hand. “What’s . . . your . . . grandson’s . . . name?” she said between sniffs.

  “His name is Timothy. He likes trains.”

  Fallon nodded his thanks at Pigate, and called out, “I love you, Rachel Renee.” Let the other lawmen hear him say that. He didn’t give a damn.

  “I love you, too, Papa,” his daughter said.

  Then Fallon turned to the police sergeant, started to say something to him, but Andy Cameron, the chief of police, was hurrying down the landing.

  Fallon said, “Let’s go,” and walked to cut the distance.

  He explained on the way off the landing and into the city, which was still reeling from the turmoil of the day.

  “They’re in Army uniforms, on a raft. Anderson, MacGregor, Hardin, Holderman. The man working the raft is a big man, smells like the river, called Tully.”

  “We can telegraph Kansas City—”

  “They’ll be off the river long before Kansas City. Hardin’s not dumb enough—and MacGregor’s no idiot either—to try to escape from prison on a raft that’s barely waterproof.”

  “We can—”

  Fallon snapped, “They have two women hostages, Andy. You close in on them, these men won’t hesitate to kill them.”

  They were walking now with urgency, headed for the city jail. “I need some trail clothes, Andy. A revolver. And a Winchester.”

  “I have a Marlin. Repeater.”

  “Caliber?”

  “It’s one of the new big-bore models, .45-70.”

  “That’ll do the job.”

  “Harry, my jurisdiction ends at the city limits.”

  “I know that, Andy, and I thank you for all you’re doing. Dry clothes. Horses. Ammunition. That’s all I need.”

  “We can go with you,” one of the sheriff’s deputies said. “At least as far as the county line.”

  “And I appreciate that, but I think this is a job for federal peace officers.” He felt better at the sight of Captain Big Tim O’Connor hurrying down the street. “And prison guards.”

  * * *

  Two policemen brought Calloway to Cameron’s office as Fallon changed into dry, comfortable, but durable clothes. After Fallon nodded, all of the city policemen walked out of the room, leaving Fallon and O’Connor alone with the squirming convict.

  Fallon slipped the suspenders over his shirt, then sat down and pulled on the right sock first. A good woolen sock that came up high. Good for boots and a saddle.

  “Listen . . .” Calloway sniffled.

  After Fallon’s nod, O’Connor’s well-placed backhand left Calloway on the sofa against the wall, wiping his split lip with the back of his hand.

  “Breaking out of prison adds at least a year to your sentence.” Fallon pulled on the other sock. “The reverend will testify that you tried to knife him to death. I’ll verify that I heard you agree to kill the reverend on orders from Bowen Hardin. That’s not just attempted murder, Calloway, it’s murder for hire.”

  The nervous man straightened, and let his lip, now quivering, bleed.

  “You broke out of prison with two hardened convicts, Calloway.” Fallon pulled on the right Wellington—a little loose, but it would work fine in the saddle and break in fairly quickly. “You have kidnapping charges, too, including the abduction of a five-year-old girl.” Fallon grabbed the other boot and stared at Calloway for the first time as he pulled it on and rose from the chair.

  “Let’s face facts, son.” He grabbed the bandana and tied it around his neck, then pulled on a vest. “Anderson and Hardin have nothing to lose. Someone will die. Some innocent person. The U.S. solicitor will add an accessory to murder charge to everything else you’re looking at, Cameron, when one of those killers puts down an innocent victim. With everything else, I think you’ll be facing the gallows.”

  Now he moved across the room, buckling on the gunbelt. By the time Fallon stood in front of the sofa, he has pulled out the long-barreled Colt Peacemaker, and was rotating the cylinder and checking the .45-caliber cartridges.

  “But you probably already know this, Calloway,” he said, losing the conversational tone and letting his voice fall into a deadly whisper. “If something happens to my wife, or the widow of Elliott Jefferson, you won’t go to trial.” He pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. The snap of the hammer landing on the empty chamber must have sounded like a cannon going off, because Calloway let out a shriek and jumped. “You’ll be back in the federal pen here as soon as we can transfer you,” Fallon said. “And you know how easy it is for a man to die in the pen. You’ve been around enough to see that for yourself.”

  “You can’t . . .”

  “I don’t have time to dicker with you, Calloway. You tell me where Hardin’s going, and you tell me in six seconds or your life is over.”

  “He didn’t tell us nothin’. Come on, Warden, you know Bowen Hardin. He don’t trust nobody.”

  “I’m extending the time you have,” Fallon nodded. “But MacGregor and Holderman aren’t so tight-lipped.”

  The man wiped his bloody lip now, thinking.

  Fallon let him think, but after half a minute, he whispered, “They’re getting farther down the river, Calloway. My patience has its limits.”

  “I’m . . . tryin’ . . .” The man almost burst into tears, but then his eyes brightened, and he said, “Tully.”

  “The raft man,” Fallon said.

  “Yeah.”

  “MacGregor mentioned him.”

  “I met the son of a . . .” He choked off the curse, saw O’Connor, and concluded the sentence with “strumpet.” Seething, he said, “I was on the raft . . .”

  “I know, Warden, Honest, I know all that. MacGregor said Tully would get them there.”

  “There?”

  “Yeah. And then Holderman . . . he said . . . he said . . .” He trembled and turned ashen. “Sin. It’s a bar. A saloon or something. Yeah. Tully must run a bar. Sin A Bar. That’s what he called it. MacGregor said it was the perfect place to hold up for a while.”

  “Sin A Bar.” Fallon kicked the trash can across the room. “Sin A Bar. That river rat wouldn’t own a bar.” His memory triggered something, though, and he stopped, looked at Big Tim O’Connor. “Sni-A-Bar. Sni-A-Bar.”

  Calloway’s head was shaking. “No, boss, I swear to the Lord, that big cur named Holderman, Bootsey we call him, he said, ‘Sin A Bar.’”

  “Because Holderman’s a moron.” Fallon hurried to the police chief’s desk, grabbed the heavy Marlin repeating rifle and his hat, nodded at O’Connor, and went through the door.

  “He’s all yours, Andy,” Fallon said. “Lock him up and keep him.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  U.S. marshals, federal troops, and state peace officers had agreed to put a cordon from Kansas City, beginning ten miles north of the city on both sides of the river, then moving southwest through Olathe, Ottawa, Osage City, Emporia, Cottonwood Falls, then back up toward Council Grove, Alma, St. Mary’s, Holton, and Atchison.r />
  Posses would be sent out, with orders to follow, not fight if they came across the kidnappers and their two hostages. The U.S. marshal and the colonel from the fort were coordinating those plans with the county sheriff and a representative from the U.S. marshal’s office across the river in Missouri.

  Fallon let them go about their business. He and Big Tim O’Connor went back to the federal pen. “We need a tracker,” O’Connor said. “I’ll fetch Ol’ Buffalo Bones.”

  “No,” Fallon said. “Not Buffalo Bones. I have someone else in mind. Someone even better.”

  * * *

  The cell was decorated with hangings of the letters he had drawn, one with the entire alphabet, capital and small letters, and another, above the head of his cot, printed and in cursive letters:

  Benjamin James MacIntosh

  Benjamin James MacIntosh “Warden,” the convict said without rising from his bunk.

  “Ben. How would you like to get out of this hellhole for a few days?”

  One-eyed, scar-faced Ben Lawless pushed his cap back, shook his head, and spoke sadly, “I figured you’d pay me a visit. You know I had no knowledge of what those pieces of trash was plannin’.”

  “I know that.”

  He sat up, looked at the letters, and pointed to them. “Those were two mighty fine teachers, boss. Good ladies. Real patient.”

  “They still are, Ben.”

  MacIntosh sighed and began to shake his head sadly.

  “Boss,” he said, “I can’t help you.”

  “I need a tracker.”

  Now he looked up, the hardness replacing sympathy in his eyes, and he said coldly, “Boss, you won’t want your wife back after them dogs is through with her or the other gal.”

  Fallon’s response came quickly, as though he expected something like that from the poisoner of Cherokee Indians decades earlier. “Before you discovered strychnine, Ben, and before you gave up on yourself behind these walls, you were a damned good tracker. And you were a man. I’d like to see you become that man again.”

  * * *

  For the first time since they had left the boat in the swampy creek that drained into the Big Muddy, Bowen Hardin let the men rest. But it was not like anyone could find comfort in this hell, a wooden inferno of humidity with mosquitoes and gnats tormenting the escaped convicts and the two women.

  All Christina knew was that they were in Missouri. She had thought the men would head to the western bank, shoot across Kansas. It was closer to the Indian Territory, and traveling would be a whole lot easier. But now she understood the logic, maybe even the genius of Bowen Hardin’s—or rather, Sean MacGregor’s—plan. Just about everyone would think these felons would move across Kansas. The posses would not be able to bring dogs to sniff them out, not until they found out where they had landed, and that could be anywhere between Leavenworth and Kansas City.

  She was certain that Missouri lawmen would be combing the banks, but few would think to look into the depths of this hellish wooded maze.

  “This ain’t nothin’,” Tully the raft master said with a laugh when Aaron Holderman began bellyaching at how hard it was to move through the muck and the brambles and the briar patches, while fighting bloodsucking insects with both hands. “Wait till we hit the Sni-A-Bar.”

  That had also surprised Christina. She thought for certain that either Indianola Anderson or Bowen Hardin would have sliced Tully’s throat from ear to ear as soon as he had landed the raft, but now she understood. Tully knew where the horses were, and the horses were bedded down somewhere along the Sni-A-Bar.

  She remembered Tully boasting on the raft: “The price of this raft—since I’m the only one who knows exactly where those horses are—just went up.”

  Now she wished her geography was a little better. She didn’t know anything about this Sni-A-Bar, except that, within all reason, it had to be in Missouri. How far? Well, a good distance, she reasoned. They wouldn’t leave the horses too close, or too easy for someone to find. They had moved fast since leaving the river, but that, she guessed, was to put distance between them and the Big Muddy. Get farther from the river, where search parties would be fewer. Find the horses. And ride . . . to . . . wherever.

  Janice came over, sweating, hair disheveled, mosquito bites already forming on her cheek, neck, arms, and hands. She sank beside Christina, sniffing, and whispered, “I’m . . . so sorry . . . Christina . . .” Tears mixed with the sweat. “Poor Rachel Renee.”

  “They’re fine, Janice,” Christina said. She knew it. Her heart told her that.

  “Christina,” Janice said.

  But she reached over and put her right hand on Janice’s forearm, then squeezed. “You gave her the knife, Janice. Remember?” She somehow managed to smile. “You helped me teach her how to swim. And you don’t know my husband all that well, Janice, but let me tell you something. He never quits. He never gives up. And people have been trying to kill him for a damned long time. And most of those who tried . . . they’re the ones who are dead.” She looked up, because Indianola Anderson and the raft man, Tully, were moving toward them. “Or,” she quickly added, “soon will be.”

  Tully came up behind Christina, put his meaty paws on her shoulders, and began rubbing. If Christina thought having a gorilla try to break her collarbones romantic, she might have been moved. Instead, she spit at the feet of Anderson, who had dropped to his knees, pinning her against the walls of the small sinkhole they had dropped into to catch their breaths.

  Anderson ignored her. Tully whispered, “It’s ’bout time you and me got better acquainted, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes locked on Bowen Hardin, who now stood over them and barked, “Get back, eat some salt in that pouch over there. Wash it down with a swallow of water and get ready to move.”

  “In a little bit,” Anderson said and winked.

  But Tully’s hands shot off Christina’s shoulders, and the cocking of the revolver caused Indianola Anderson to turn away from Janice.

  “I don’t give orders twice,” Hardin said.

  The two thugs moved away from the women.

  Bowen Hardin turned briefly to Janice. “You, too,” he said. “Salt’ll be good for you.” Janice did not move. “Go,” Hardin said, raising his voice. “They won’t touch you.”

  When she climbed out of the hole, Hardin looked at Christina.

  “If you want my thanks,” she said after a while, “you’ll have to do better than that.”

  He managed a slight smile.

  “I didn’t do that for your . . . reputation.” A glance over his shoulder told him no one was listening, but he lowered his voice anyway. “If they have you, you’ll be insane. If you’re crazy, I’d have to kill you. And if I kill you, I won’t have any bargaining chips when they catch us.”

  Christina tilted her head, trying to comprehend what the killer had said. “What makes you think you’ll be caught?”

  “We’re always caught.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Because this time, they might kill us rather than take us back to that hellhole. When that happens, you might as well know, I plan on taking you and your friend to hell with me.”

  “What have we done to you?”

  “Nothing. It’s just a matter of revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?”

  “For me living this long.”

  * * *

  “How well do you know the Sni-A-Bar?” Fallon asked.

  Ben Lawless pulled up a pair of chaps over his newly issued jeans. “When I was working for Missouri marshals, I had to track some men through that country.” He grabbed a vest, slipping his arms through the holes. “It’s rough. Bushwhackers took to that country during the War Between the States. Outlaws hid out there before, during, and after the war.”

  “Ever heard of a man named Tully?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, we can question a few . . .”

  “No, boss, you can’t say nothin’.” He pick
ed up a gunbelt, held it up for Fallon’s inspection, and when the warden nodded, Ben Lawless looked amazed. Quickly, he buckled the rig on before Fallon changed his mind. “You mention this guy Tully’s name, and he’ll know you’re after him in the time it takes a crow to fly over his head. It’s tough country, but word spreads fast. Especially word that the law’s coming to pay a call on some resident.”

  “Can you find him?”

  “Boss.” He moved across the display of guns in the mercantile, and finally pointed to an old cap-and-ball percussion Navy half-buried under a wheat sack. The clerk pulled out the ancient weapon and handed it to him butt first. Lawless deftly lifted from the young man’s hand, spun the .36 around, cocked it, uncocked it, rotated the cylinder, listened to the action, and smiled as he handed it back to the young man. “Load it for me, buddy,” he said. “But I’ll put the caps on my ownself.”

  Then he turned to Fallon.

  “Yeah, I can find them, boss. I can find a fart in a hurricane. Let me do the askin’, my way. But all I’m doing, boss, is findin’ them. Killin’ ’em. That’ll be your department. Is you fine with that?”

  Fallon nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine with that.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  “Warden Fallon,” Captain Big Tim O’Connor said when Fallon and Lawless emerged from the mercantile. “Sir, I think it’s my duty to come with you. I can get Wilson, Raymond, a few other of my best men.”

  “Tim,” Fallon said. “I appreciate the gesture and your volunteering. But I need someone to look after the pen. And too many men puts Janice and Christina in harm’s way.”

  “Two men’s too many,” Ben Lawless said. “But I don’t reckon you’ll turn me loose on my own.”

  Fallon didn’t smile. He didn’t even look back at the old killer. What he did, though, was reach out and shake O’Connor’s massive hand. “Thank you, Tim. Thank you for everything.”