There he stopped, and turned back around to look at the clerk.
He’d popped a healthy sized licorice strip into his mouth and began chewing. “Did you forget something, Deputy?”
“No, laddie, but have ye ever seen a Viking funeral?” He had to speak without spitting the cigar out of his mouth.
After swallowing his candy, the kid shook his little head.
“Well, it’s a sight to behold, from all the drawings I’ve seen in magazines and such things. Step outside in ten minutes or so, son, and treat yourself to a glorious sight that hasn’t been seen very often since the days of Erik the . . . Great? I doubt if one has ever been seen in these parts.” Keegan nodded with finality.
Outside, he set the cans down on the edge of the water trough, pulled hard to get the cigar going good and strong, and yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be giving the late Lovely Tom Benteen Lovely a preview of the fires of Hell in a few minutes. All are invited. And ye might want to get that newfangled fire engine out of the shed just in case the wind changes direction.”
After taking another puff on the cigar, he grabbed the cans and marched off toward the courthouse.
Reaching the gallows, he set the two cans down and opened them, smelling the potency of the kerosene before remembering, like an idiot, that he had a lighted cigar between his teeth. Keegan removed the Havana with his left hand, blew out smoke, and placed the cigar on the third step. He laughed. “Bloody hell, Keegan, ye haven’t even tasted a dram of Irish or porter this hole damned morn.” Next he gathered brush and two armfuls of wood from the winter wood pile near the back steps of the courthouse and placed them under the feet of the starting-to-stink corpse of Tom Lovely.
Looking up at the dead man, Keegan grinned. “Lovely, me boy, if I could wait till that crap you put in your britches dried, I might not have needed those cans of kerosene, me lad. Alas.” He winked, rose, and walked back to the steps, where he picked up the cigar, out by this time, and returned it to his mouth.
Then he remembered. “That’s right, I haven’t had a nip today.”
He removed the hair tonic, cracked open the bottle on the steps’ rails, and took a short pull. He spit out the first mouthful, hoping any shards of glass would come out with that, then drank greedily as he marched up the steps, soaking all the steps and the platform with the first can of kerosene. At the trapdoor, he poured the remnants of the can onto Tom Lovely’s head, which hung like the head of a dove that had been shot with birdshot, then had its neck broken over the shotgun barrel to put the poor critter out of its misery.
“Titus Bedwell,” he said aloud. “Remember the doves we’d shoot and then fry up for the boys at Fort Spalding? Aye, glorious days those were. Here’s to you, Sergeant Major.” He took another swing of tonic before shoving the bottle into his back pocket.
He dropped the can through the trapdoor, but it missed hitting Tom Lovely’s corpse and clattered onto the ground near the wood pile.
Keegan looked over the fence to the center of Purgatory City’s business district and saw the kid from the general store standing on the boardwalk outside the front door of the store. He wasn’t saying anything, and definitely—like a good soldier—not leaving his post at the store. Other men and women began to stop and look off to where the kid was staring, which was right at the gallows and Sean Keegan.
He saluted the lad and began whistling a bawdy Irish tune as he pounded down the steps and picked up the last can of kerosene. He poured a trail of fuel from the bottom steps to under the gallows and splashed most of the liquid on the firewood, but also heaved enough onto Tom Lovely’s boots, and pants, especially on the groin area.
Keegan tossed the can on the pile and walked back to the steps, where he removed the busted bottle of hair tonic and finished his drink.
Holding the bottle toward the swaying corpse, Keegan said, “Tom, you lousy dog, this is just a wee taste of what you’re be feeling for all of eternity. The fires of Hell will be ten thousand times hotter than this.” He threw the bottle, which smashed against the misshapen pile of firewood.
Finding the matches, he fished one out and struck it on the top of the rail. He put it to his cigar, which he pulled on until he had a wonderful glow on the tip. This match he shook out and pitched onto the gallows steps, then stepped away, found another match, and struck it against his thumbnail.
He thought, I surely hope like bloody hell this actually works. Smiling, he added out loud, “And Lord, if ye’d be so kind, don’t let this burn down all of this blight of a city.”
The match left his fingers, flickering as it fell. The whoosh and whirl of flame almost knocked Sean Keegan on his hindquarters. He staggered back, gasping, wondering if he had singed his hair, and feeling the warmth on his back. The gallows were already crackling.
Realizing that he wasn’t on fire himself, Keagan took another hard pull on his cigar and walked to the gate. He saw that the city’s volunteer fire department had managed to get the big wagon with water and hoses to the corner of the street. A few of the men in their shield-front shirts came running with buckets and axes, but Keegan stopped them by raising his right hand.
“Nothing to fight yet, me boys,” he said, and turned back to watch his handiwork.
My goodness, he thought, this is not what I expected at all.
“Oh, hell,” said one of the firefighters.
Keegan laughed and tried to enjoy his cigar. “No, this is just a taste of it, like I told Tom Lovely.” He looked back at the men and the gathering crowd. “Let it burn, me friends. Let it burn. Let Tom Benteen burn as his soul is already doing. Just make sure the fire doesn’t spread. I’ll be in my office if you need me, ladies and gents.”
And polishing his badge, he moved through the crowd of gawkers as the smoke rose high and black and all so beautiful.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
From an arroyo, Breen had been watching the smoke for a good twenty minutes, letting the two horses pulling the wagon breathe, urinate, and get a little rest. Beside him, Charlotte Platte remained quiet, barely noticing the smoke, but then she hadn’t said a word since he had helped her onto the seat. Otto Kruger, on the other hand, had not shut up, wailing about his face and his other injuries, vowing that he’d see Jed Breen in Hell, and that his brother would surely kill him long before he ever got Otto to Purgatory City.
But Kruger hadn’t said anything for the past two hours. Not since the gag had been put into his mouth.
“Fire’s contained,” Breen said at last, looking at Charlotte Platte, handcuffed and with her ankles bound with pigging strings.
She remained impassive, but her face was sunburned. Her hat had blown off into the back of the wagon, but Breen had yet to retrieve it. He turned to check on Kruger, lying on the hard wooden bed of the wagon. His face didn’t look sunburned, but after being scalded by that hot coffee, sunburn was the least of the killer’s worries.
“I don’t think Indians have wiped out Purgatory City,” Breen said. “Or your brother, either.”
Still, he kept the big Sharps rifle cradled over his lap, and after taking a sip of water from his canteen, then offered some to his female prisoner, who neither accepted nor declined but just stared off into the wasteland of Texas. He screwed on the lid, did not offer Kruger a drink, and left the canteen between them. Finally, he had the horses moving the wagon again, but going slow—playing things safe—so not to raise much dust.
The smoke from Purgatory City wasn’t the first Breen had seen since leaving Deep Flood with his prisoners. He had spotted smoke signals a ways off toward the Davis Mountains, and more coming from Comanche Springs. Purgatory City, Breen knew, had the misfortune of being built right along the Great Comanche War Trail that led from the Comanche stronghold in Indian Territory and the Texas Panhandle all the way to Mexico. Of course, once this entire region had been part of the Comanche stronghold. And while the Comanches might not still have the numbers—thanks to smallpox—to control all of the territory, they sti
ll could be a deadly force, especially to one man traveling in a wagon with two prisoners.
Breen had already planned an emergency departure. His horse, saddled and rested, was tethered to the back of the wagon. If Comanches, or Apaches, or even Mexican bandits or too many outlaws attacked, he could mount his horse and gallop off as fast as he could, leaving the scarred Kruger brother and Charlotte ”The Widowmaker” Platte for the attackers. Indians and bandits would likely see the profit in a wagon and two horses, a scalp from a defenseless man and, hell, a woman. Especially a woman. It would seem the wiser choice than chasing a man on a good horse who had a long-range rifle. Sure, it wouldn’t be the noblest thing a man could do, but, hell, hadn’t Jed Breen been dubbed a jackal?
Keeping the wagon in the arroyo, Breen had maybe a half mile more before he reached the sandy washout that would serve as a ramp back to the road. He had used the path before. As a bounty hunter, Jed Breen knew the advantages of keeping out of the skyline when you wanted not to be seen, and in this country, there weren’t too many places where you couldn’t be seen.
The smoke from town bothered him, though he couldn’t quite explain why. Buildings caught fire in frontier towns all the time. A grease fire at some café. An exploding lantern in a home. A drunken prostitute falling asleep with a cigarette in her lips. Teenage boys playing with matches in a livery stable. Even arsonists with nothing better to do. Breen had survived infernos in Fort Worth . . . Leavenworth . . . Laramie . . . and Prescott, Arizona Territory. The last one made Breen grin. He had set that fire himself to flush out Wade Friday, but hadn’t counted on the wind or all the rotgut whiskey Wade Friday had spilled. But he came through all right, both he and Wade Friday, and when some citizens demanded to know what had started the conflagration, Breen blamed Friday. That added another year to Friday’s sentence. He probably ought to be getting out of Yuma just about now.
Two minutes later Breen thought he had only himself to blame. He had been spending too much attention on all that smoke—off across the flats again, and a sliver coming way off in the mountains, and especially down the pike where Purgatory City should be. Watching smoke instead of the fire he carried in the wagon.
Charlotte Platte moved like a wildcat. He caught her movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned, dropping the leather reins, reaching with his left hand for the Sharps on his lap, and bringing up his right to deflect the blow. Too late. For a woman who killed with poison, she moved damned fast.
The metal cuff on her left wrist caught him on the corner of his head, stunning him. Without a grip on the reins, the horses started moving faster, excited and nervous from the lurching in the wagon. Breen saw stars, heard his curse and his groan, and felt himself toppling over the wooden frame of the wagon.
He landed with a thud, rolling over to keep himself from getting his neck, back, legs, or head smashed by the rear wheel. He kept rolling, then came up, fought off the spell of dizziness, and felt blood pouring into his left eye.
“Hiya! Hiya! Move, damn your hides, move!” Charlotte Platte screamed. She slid over to the side of the seat, bent over, fetched the lines, and began whipping the team furiously. Breen saw his horse’s rear hooves and tail flying like a cavalry guidon and full gallop—but only for a moment. Dust quickly blocked out the wagon, his horse, and his two prisoners.
He drew his pistol, but held his fire, not wanting to hit the horse. Brushing away the blood with his left hand, he rose, found his hat, and pulled it down hard over the left side. The hat band tightened over the cut Charlotte Platte had given him, and that might serve as a bandage. Breen holstered the revolver and picked up the Sharps as he ran after the wagon.
A moment later, he stopped and looked up above the top of the arroyo. Dust rose like smoke, higher and higher, and Breed cursed. Sure, the smoke over in the Davis Mountains and the smoke off toward Comanche Springs were too far away for whoever was sending those signals to come riding over and kill him. What party those signals were meant for worried him.
He could not consider that. He was afoot. Granted he could walk to Purgatory City in just a couple of hours, and a man afoot might even have a better chance at getting through unnoticed in this country, if he played it smart and took his time. But he had a substantial payday in that wagon, and Jed Breen prided himself on his professionalism.
Leaning forward, he took off running, keeping his head down to avoid the blinding dust and to watch out for rattlesnakes.
Boots were not meant for running. He had a pair of Apache-style moccasins for times like these, but they were on the saddlebags on his horse. He stumbled over rocks, twisting this way and that, but never losing his feet or his focus. The horses, well-rested, enjoyed the chance to run, and before long, Breen didn’t have to worry about being blinded by dust. He did not slow down, though. He couldn’t. That was his money driving the wagon and that was his money bouncing around in the back of the wagon.
He saw the two horses first, coming up the loamy ramp at the bend in the arroyo. Breen cursed the woman as he saw bouncing high off the bench before coming back down hard. He cursed her, driving horses that fast to get out of the arroyo, fearing she would break his horse’s legs or neck or everything. Even before he had barely started the curse, he saw the back of the wagon, and Otto Kruger bounced up, too, only he came down hard on the left side. From Breen’s perspective, Kruger didn’t land back in the wagon. Breen caught just a glimpse of his horse, then dust covered the top of the arroyo and the road.
Breen made himself run faster. His head throbbed and bled, and Breen thought of every curse word he knew, but did not vocalize them. It was damned hard to curse and breathe and run in this part of Texas.
All right, he thought as he ran, how far can this wicked little poisoner get? Her feet are bound. She’s wearing handcuffs, and I have the key.
He knew if she stuck to the road, she’d ride straight into Purgatory City, where there was a U.S. Army fort nearby, town lawmen, county lawmen, and Texas Rangers of the Frontier Battalion. And quite a few ornery and inquisitive citizens. Every one of them would wonder what a woman was doing in handcuffs with her legs tied at the ankles.
He also knew that his female prisoner could make up some convincing lies. She could say she had been abducted, just managed to escape. If his horse didn’t pull free, or get killed, some men might find Breen’s identification in the saddlebags and his grip. With his reputation, that was not going to help him in the least.
The way she was driving, Charlotte Platte might damn well wreck the wagon, kill all three horses, and herself and Otto Kruger. That would have been most unfortunate. The reward poster for Charlotte Platte said the bounty would be paid upon delivery—alive and with proper identification—to the county sheriff in Precious Metal, Arizona Territory, for trial. They didn’t want her dead. The citizens wanted the honor and privilege of hanging that murderess themselves. Oh, they would accept the body of Poison Platte—but pay only thirty-five bucks for a corpse, and that was hardly worth the effort for a man with Jed Breen’s skills.
He noticed the dust fading, and over his heavy breathing, slamming heart, pounding boots, and jingling spurs—he would have stopped to remove those last two, but couldn’t spare the time—he realized that he no longer heard the hooves or wheels of the wagon. The dust no longer left a trail, and Breen understood that Charlotte Platte had stopped the wagon.
And that would be the last thing she would do.
He slowed to a walk, then lowered himself and eased his way to the rise that wary travelers used to leave the arroyo before it turned west and into no man’s country.
He stopped briefly, trying to recognize the sounds on the road. Waiting until his breathing was almost normal, he moved to the edge, dropped to his belly, and slithered up the dirt ramp, stopping well before he reached the top.
His hat came off, and he cringed at the pain. Felt the blood leak down over his eyebrow, eyelashes, over his eye and down his face. After laying his hat on the dirt, he busied hims
elf untying his bandana, which he used to wipe the dirt and dust off the Sharps. Next he checked his revolver. Satisfied, he tied the bandana over the head wound. He had time to take off the spurs, which he did without making any noise. Carefully and silently, he eased himself up the ramp, lowering his head as he inched forward with the patience of an oyster and speed of an earthworm.
The noise he now understood. Otto Kruger was moaning, damned near whimpering. But someone was talking, and it wasn’t Charlotte the widowmaker, alias Poison Platte.
CHAPTER TWELVE
McCulloch let Wooden Arm lead the way, admiring how the Comanche boy sat in the white man’s saddle, how far he could lean to either side, studying the ground for sign. If McCulloch tried to lean that far, he would have been tasting gravel. And Wooden Arm had only one good arm to use.
The former Texas Ranger did not spend the entire morning marveling over the boy’s ability on horseback. Keeping the Winchester repeater handy, he looked at the sky and saw the white smoke puffing into the cloudless blue above the mountains. That wasn’t a campfire. It wasn’t a forest fire. The wisps of smoke rose at intervals, and he knew it was a signal fire. White men didn’t do that. Scalp hunters definitely wouldn’t give away their location. So it had to be Indians. Comanches? Kiowas? Apaches?
When he and the boy stopped around noon for jerky, stale crackers, and water, Wooden Arm signed, I know you saw the smoke.
I am not blind, McCulloch signed his guide.
The myth, of course, courtesy of hack writers churning out dime novels about Kit Carson, Daniel Boone, and other frontier adventurers, was that Indians conversed with smoke the way the army used Morse code. In reality, the smoke was used just to let someone know someone was around.
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