by Lee Collins
LEE COLLINS
The Dead of Winter
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
For Tori who never let me give up on my dreamy little dreams
ONE
The smell of blood was thick in the crisp morning air as Marshal Mart Duggan dismounted, his boots finding solid earth a few inches beneath the snow. Tossing the reins over a nearby branch, he looked at his deputy and pointed to his own eyes. Deputy Jack Evans nodded, pulling his rifle from the saddle scabbard. Satisfied, the marshal drew his revolver and turned back toward the clearing. Behind him, his mare tossed her head and snorted.
Duggan paused at the edge of the disturbed snow and crouched, his breath lingering in front of his nose like a lover's ghost. He ran a gloved hand over the base of a nearby tree. Examining his fingers, he nodded to himself. Wet and cold. Whatever happened here had happened recently.
Standing up again, Duggan surveyed the clearing. Bits of clothing and strips of dripping flesh dangled from the nearby branches, but there was nothing that resembled a body. Blood-spattered snow was heaped against the tree trunks, exposing strands of yellow grass.
Looking up, the marshal beckoned for his deputy. Jack dismounted and approached the scene, his rifle at the ready.
"Keep an eye out," Duggan said in a low voice. Eyes wide, the young man nodded and pointed his gun toward the trees. Duggan walked a slow circle around the clearing, his blue eyes sweeping the snow for clues. Two pairs of boots and a few dogs had entered the clearing from the east. Duggan pictured them approaching, a couple of young men with rifles in hand, laughing as they led their wolfhounds through the snow. That early, the white peaks would have kept the morning sun from spilling into the valley. Maybe the hounds had been nipping at one another as they walked alongside their masters, unable to sense the danger lying in wait ahead.
Danger from what? Completing his sweep of the perimeter, Duggan frowned.
"What's wrong, sir?" Jack asked.
"Something ain't right here," the marshal said, not looking up. "We got us a pair of wolfers killed by something violent, but their dogs got away clean." He pointed to a set of tracks leading away from the clearing. "See there? Them dogs wasn't even bloody when they lit out, meaning they wasn't in the fight at all. They just upped and ran, letting the poor fools with them get torn to bits."
"Can't say I blame them," Jack said. "Whatever killed them fellers did it right quick, and was awful messy about it."
Duggan grunted as he made his way into the clearing. As he stepped around a broken branch, his eye caught a small silver gleam in a nearby drift. He reached down and his fingers wrapped around the barrel of a revolver. He pulled it free of the snow and brushed it off. A Schofield .45, its nickel shine accented by blood spatters. Holstering his own gun, the marshal snapped it open and looked in the cylinder.
"Two rounds fired here," he said, holding the revolver up. "One of them wolfers saw it coming, at least."
"Don't look like he hit nothing, though," Jack said.
Digging through the snow, the marshal uncovered another revolver and a long rifle, both unused. "Other feller didn't get a shot off, looks like."
Duggan carried the guns back to his deputy and set them down against a tree. "So," he said, giving the clearing another sweep with his eyes, "one of them wolfers gets jumped and goes down before he can get his irons out. The other pulls on the attacker, gets two shots off, then gets torn up for his efforts anyway."
"And their dogs get away clean," Jack said. "Bad day for them, I guess."
Duggan sighed through his nose, the white cloud pouring over his red beard. "That don't seem right," he said. "Ain't seen the wolfhound yet that wouldn't die for his master."
Jack shrugged, but Duggan's scowl deepened. After four years of serving as marshal for one of the rowdiest towns in Colorado, he'd seen more than enough outlaws and criminals with a quick gun and a good aim. He'd also had his fair share of run-ins with wolves, bears, and other maneating critters. Not a one of them could have taken down two seasoned wolfers like this, even if they didn't have their dogs with them.
Duggan felt Jack tense up beside him. Holding his breath, the marshal turned his head toward his deputy. The young man was alert, his fingers squeezing the barrel of his rifle. Duggan strained his ears, hoping to catch anything out of the ordinary, but the morning was still. After a few moments, he caught Jack's eye and nodded. The two lawmen turned and walked back to their horses. The marshal's mare whinnied, eager to leave. Duggan patted her neck, keeping his eyes on the clearing while Jack climbed into the saddle.
Without warning, a wave of gooseflesh rippled up the marshal's arms. Jack must have felt it, too; his gloved hands curled around the rifle's barrel. Duggan placed his boot in the stirrup and lifted himself into the saddle. Drawing his Colt, he peered through the trees. The air around them felt colder. The horses began fidgeting, stamping their hooves in the snow. Duggan could hear his own breathing and the creaking of the leather saddles, but nothing else. It seemed like an ordinary winter morning in the Rockies, but something still wasn't right. The fine hairs at the base of his neck pressed against the red bandana he wore against the cold. Somewhere, hidden in the trees, something was watching them.
Turning to his deputy, Duggan gave a single nod. The two men pulled their horses around and kicked their sides. The animals needed no encouragement, trotting between the trees toward the edge of the forest. Once clear, they broke into a gallop. As the clearing shrank in the distance behind them, Duggan felt the chill and malice melting away like ice on a spring river.
The marshal didn't say much on the ride back to town. In fact, he didn't say much for the rest of the day, which was fine with Jack. After seeing something like that, the deputy needed time to mull it over. Aside from breaking up a midday saloon fight and sending a dispatch to the county sheriff about the morning's discovery, both men spent the day in silence. Duggan put Jack on the porch of the mar shal's station for the afternoon "to keep an eye on things outside." Jack knew the marshal would be keeping an eye on the bottle of whiskey in his desk. The old man was funny about people seeing him hit the bottle. Probably had something to do with being released from his duties a few years back on account of a drunken binge. Or maybe it was because Duggan's reputation had gone downhill since he'd shot a miner outside the Purdy Brothel a few months back for causing a ruckus. Trouble was, folks in town had favored the miner over the marshal, though Jack had never held the shooting against his boss. In a town like Leadville, lawmen learned to shoot first.
A powerful thirst started tugging at Jack's throat. From his post, he could see the front door of the Pioneer saloon down the street. The big two story building called to him, its shiplap walls and glass windows promising shelter from gruesome memories. It wouldn't suit an on-duty deputy to be seen standing at the bar, though, no matter what kind of morning he'd had. Jack tipped his hat toward the saloon, offering a silent promise of the evening ahead.
"See anything, kid?"
Jack leaned his head back to look at the marshal. "Not a thing, sir. Seems everybody's hiding from the cold."
"Just as well," Duggan replied, his voice thick. Jack could smell the whiskey on his breath, but his eyes were stil
l clear. "Don't want folks running about today."
Jack didn't need to ask, but he did anyway. "On account of what we saw this morning?" The marshal nodded. "Never seen you get so wound up over a bear, sir."
Duggan looked down at his boots. "That wasn't no bear that did that, son."
"No?" Surprised, Jack felt a familiar chill creep up his spine and tried to shrug it off. "Pack of wolves, then?" The brim of the marshal's hat moved from side to side as he shook his head, but he didn't look up from his boots.
"You think bandits did it?" Jack asked, incredulous. No outlaw gang, no matter how ruthless, would do that to a pair of lone wolfers. Most outlaws wanted money, not carnage. They wouldn't hesitate to shoot a man for being poor, but they wouldn't spread him across the landscape for it, either.
Duggan looked up and met his deputy's gaze. Jack could feel the marshal taking stock of him, those blue eyes asking themselves if he measured up. The deputy shifted his weight in the chair, waiting for the verdict. A horse whinnied inside the livery across the street.
Finally, the marshal sighed, his breath filling the air between them. "No, that wasn't the work of bandits, either."
"We're running short on suspects, sir."
"I know." Duggan turned to look down the street. A few moments passed. "Fact is, Jack, I ain't got a clue what killed those men this morning."
"Looked like critters to me. Bears or wolves or some such."
"That's what I thought at first, too. Big old grizzly attack, and if anybody asks, that's our story. Between you and me, though, that was one special bear."
The chill started crawling up Jack's spine again. "What's that mean?"
"Whatever killed those men got it done without giving their hounds a scratch. I've known a good number of wolfers in my day, and every one of them trusted their dogs with their lives. Swore up and down that their hounds would jump down a grizzly's throat for them. Them dogs with those men this morning lit out without getting so much as a drop of blood on their coats. Whatever killed them boys must have scared the dogs bad, and a wolfhound don't spook easily."
Jack stared at the livery's sign, pondering the marshal's words. "So what's out there that could spook a wolfhound, then?"
"Nothing I'd care to meet." Duggan stood silent for a moment, fingering the hammer of his Colt. Finally, he stirred himself and looked at his deputy. "Don't worry about it, kid. These mountains are full of strange critters. I'd lay twenty dollars on this being a one-time thing, a story to scare your kids with one day." He clapped Jack on the shoulder. "Go home and get some rest. I'll take the evening shift till the night boys show up."
"If you insist," Jack said, standing up. He pulled his coat closed and tipped his hat to the marshal. "See you in the morning, sir." Duggan grunted and went back into the office.
Jack turned his back on the Pioneer, making clear tracks away from the saloon. He didn't know if the marshal would be watching him or not, but it wouldn't do for Duggan to see his deputy heading straight for a saloon on a day like today. Jack kept his head down, his boots crunching in the snow past the general store and down Main Street.
When he was a safe distance from the marshal's station, Jack ducked into an alley and doubled back toward the Pioneer. He could already feel the whiskey warming his belly. The afternoon sun hung just above the western peaks, turning the clouds a brilliant shade of pink. Jack paused and glanced up, drawing the cold mountain air into his lungs. Evenings like this could be deceptive. Everything seemed peaceful, but the men from the second shift in the mines would be heading out in search of their nightcaps soon. Cold nights and drunken miners meant trouble.
Maybe he shouldn't get all that drunk tonight.
The Pioneer greeted him with a jingle from the doorbell and a warm rush of air. The familiar smells of coffee, spirits, and sweat blended into a single fragrance as Jack took in the saloon's afternoon lull. A few miners stood at the bar, getting an early start on their drinking. Two had their backs to the door, staring into their whiskey between gulps. Another at the end faced the room, both elbows planted on the bar. Drops of liquor clung to the man's beard like beads of dew on a grizzly's fur. The only other patrons sat around a game of poker at one of the rough-hewn pine tables, talking and laughing as they studied the cards in front of their faces.
"Afternoon, deputy," Boots said as Jack walked up to the bar. "Nothing else to worry about in here."
"I'm off duty, Boots," Jack replied, making sure the others at the bar could hear him.
"Good." The bartender set a glass of whiskey in front of the deputy, a grin on his round face. "This one's on the house. Payment for them thugs you and Mart ran off earlier."
Jack picked up the glass, nodded his thanks, and threw it back. The alcohol left a burning trail through his chest down into his stomach. Eyes closed, he relished the feeling for a moment, then he looked at the bartender and grinned.
"Ain't seen no lawman enjoy his whiskey like you, Jack," Boots said, refilling the glass.
"I deserve it today," the deputy replied. An image from the clearing sprang into his mind, the sight of red guts hanging from a branch, and his face grew serious. He'd seen plenty of gunshot wounds, frostbite, and mining accidents; they came with the territory out here. Hell, he'd seen a man's brains get blown out not more than a month after signing on as a deputy. The sight had turned his stomach, but it hadn't burrowed into his memory like this. Shaking his head, he drained his glass, hoping to burn the images from his mind.
"As I see it, you deserve it most every day," the bartender said, leaning against the rack of bottles behind the bar. "Dealing with this lot day in and day out would drive any man to drinking."
Jack replied with a cold grin. He could see the bartender's bald spot in the mirror above the bar. Despite his age, Boots seemed sure of himself among the miners, thugs, and other residents of Leadville. Then again, he'd stood behind the Pioneer's bar in the same black militaryissue boots for longer than Jack knew. No matter how disheveled the rest of him might be, Boots always kept those boots shiny and clean. A proper tribute to his days in the service, he said, but he refused to elaborate whenever Jack pressed him for details. Every once in awhile, the miners would get to speculating on the nature of that service as they drank away the day. Some said he was Custer himself in hiding, waiting for the day when he would announce his return and sweep away the rest of the Indian nations. Others, spurred on by the fact that nobody knew his real name, said that Boots was a deserter hiding from the government. Still others figured Boots had gotten his balls shot off in some battle and resigned in shame. Nobody knew for sure, and the bartender never offered to shed any light on their speculation. Ignorance was good for business, he claimed.
The bell over the door made a pitiful jingle. Glancing over his shoulder, Jack watched the newcomer make his way over to the card table. The man kept the wide brim of his hat pulled low. A few at the table seemed to know him and called out a greeting. The stranger responded with a silent wave and pulled up a chair.
"That one looks like trouble," Boots said, refilling Jack's glass.
"Why's that?"
"No respect. Bastard just waltzes in here and plants his ass for a round of cards without buying so much as a cup of joe."
Jack's third glass flowed down his throat. Potent as it was, the whiskey wasn't going to work fast enough to suit his need. Gray light from the saloon's windows winked at him from the empty glass, pulling him back into the early morning hours and the sharp scent of blood.
"If that's the worst of your problems, you got it easy," Jack muttered, not looking up. "Hell, I'd take a hundred angry miners screaming for my blood and call myself lucky if I never had to cross paths with that monster that did those wolfers in." Catching himself, he drew a quick breath and looked up, afraid he had let the secret slip, but Boots had moved to the other end of the bar. Relieved, Jack let the breath out and glanced at himself in the mirror.
The stranger was standing behind him.
The
shock slammed into his ribs. He whirled around, his hand flying to the butt of his six-gun, but the stranger didn't flinch. The man's buffalo hide coat stayed wrapped around his small frame, and his hands rested at his sides. Jack couldn't see any iron on him, although he wore a leather rifle sheath across his back. All he could see of the man's face was his mouth, small and twisted into a mocking grin. Without a word, the stranger stepped up to the bar and rapped it with his knuckles.
Jack let himself relax, his hand dropping away from his gun. This close, he could see the man's rifle sheath in greater detail. The leather was old but well-oiled, marking a long and friendly relationship with the gunman. The stranger was shorter than the deputy, his profile hidden by the brim of his hat. A dark braid tied with a simple strand of twine ended halfway down the man's back.
