Sawbones

by William W. Johnstone

  “You worry too much, Sam,” Hannigan said. “Nott made sure they weren’t coming after us. Right, Johnny?”

  “Sure as grits and gravy, boss.”

  “What’s one more dead blue belly, anyway? From what you said, Sam, they’re as likely to come after you for what you did as they are to get riled over Johnny taking a shot at a scout.”

  “He killed him.”

  “You don’t like what I did?” Nott spun and thrust out his chin. A single step brought him within an inch of touching. He pushed out his chest and bumped into Knight. “You intend to call me out for doin’ what the boss told me to do?”

  “I heard what he said. There wasn’t anything about murdering a soldier.”

  “Boss, can I—”

  “Go grab some grub, Johnny. I’ll talk to Sam. Good job.” Hannigan spat. “Good-looking horse, too.” He slapped the small man on the shoulder, then took Knight by the arm and guided him away from camp to where they spoke in private.

  “Sam, you cannot go around telling Johnny he’s done wrong. That man has a short fuse.” Hannigan paused, then laughed. A touch of pure evil undercut any humor. “Don’t tell him I said that. He’s sensitive about how tall he is. But he has a hair-trigger temper and a mighty fast hand.”

  “The army will have every trooper in East Texas after us.”

  “Let them. We’re going to be in West Texas, maybe New Mexico or even Arizona before they figure out their scout’s gone missing. When they do, how’re they to know he didn’t run afoul of a Comanche war party? They’re on the warpath all the time.”

  “When they find the body, they’ll know it wasn’t an Indian that killed the scout.”

  “Johnny’s not a fool. He likely scalped the bluecoat to throw suspicion onto the Injuns.” Hannigan sounded downright cheerful at the prospect. “Now, go get some food. Talk to Johnny. Tell him how good he is.”

  “At what?”

  “At everything. It’s not true, but it keeps him all puffed up and in line.” Hannigan slapped Knight on the shoulder and walked away.

  Samuel Knight considered taking his horses and riding away then and there, but leaving Ben and Seth Lunsford behind with such cold-blooded killers didn’t set right. Moreover, if Norwood came out on a sortie, he stood a better chance with Hannigan and his gang backing him up than he did on his own.

  That didn’t mean Knight liked his choice to stay. He made his way into their camp to find Ben and Seth. They had things to talk over before it was too late.

  CHAPTER 10

  Gerald Donnelly grimaced in pain as he lifted his right foot to an ottoman with a soft feather pillow atop it. He rubbed his leg briskly. Tingles danced from the tip of his toes all the way up to his hip. He leaned back in the chair when the tingling turned to throbbing pain again. Moving his injured foot reminded him of Samuel Knight and how much he hated the man.

  “Victoria! Bring me something to drink. Lemonade. That would be good.” He glowered when the maid came in.

  “It’ll be more than an hour to fix that, sir,” Matty said. “I need to go fetch some of them lemons in town, if they have any.”

  “Where’s my wife? Have her get it.”

  “Don’t rightly know where she got off to. She left after she gave you breakfast.”

  “Find her!”

  “Which you want? Your wife or the lemonade?”

  Donnelly grabbed a book lying on a nearby table and flung it at the maid. Matty dodged easily, picked it up and leafed through it, finally stopping at the page where the book had been pressed open.

  “You want to keep on readin’ or should this go back to the liberry?”

  “Out. Get out!” Donnelly groaned as he shifted. His foot flopped off the footstool onto the floor. The pain forced him to sit upright.

  He rubbed his leg again, unable to reach all the way to his ankle. He grumbled when a touch of blood stained the bandages Victoria had applied only a few hours ago. Nothing had gone right the past week, nothing. That banker had balked when Donnelly demanded a loan to buy land adjoining their mutual farms. Fitzsimmons had shown nothing but animosity since Donnelly took the pastureland and horses on it for his own, using the law of eminent domain as his reason. The judge had not put up any argument, and Donnelly had made sure Fitzsimmons’s lawyer put forth a weak argument for his client.

  Donnelly had pointed out that one lawyer in town starved, two made a fortune. The lawyer—Donnelly couldn’t even remember his name—had gone along with the scheme to take the banker’s land and livestock. For his trouble, he got a lucrative job with the court preparing documents to foreclose on other property around Pine Knob.

  “Matty, where’s the list I was going over? The one with the land deed information in it?” He half rose, then sank back when no reply came. “Matty? Matty!”

  For two cents he would fire her, but Victoria liked her for some reason. Donnelly settled back, trying to ignore the dull pain where Knight had cut his ankle tendon and concentrate on getting rid of the maid. A sharp knock at the door startled him.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Captain Norwood, come to pay my respects.”

  “Respects,” Donnelly muttered. Louder, “Come in, Captain. The door’s not locked.”

  The cavalry officer came in as if on parade in front of the president. For a moment it seemed that a god had descended from Olympus. Boots polished like mirrors reflected light, and the brass caught sunbeams from outside and dazzled. Donnelly lifted his hand to shield his eyes. The officer’s trousers had creases as sharp as the saber sheathed at his side, and his coat was spotless even after the ride from the Union encampment. Rigidly straight, Norwood stared ahead. Donnelly wondered if he would salute as if reporting to a superior.

  He didn’t. That put Donnelly on guard. This petty officer was his pawn to move about. Military men didn’t salute civilians, but Norwood should acknowledge his superior, at least with a nod of his head.

  The captain took off his hat and tucked it under his left arm. Only then did he look directly at Donnelly. The flash of contempt disappeared quickly. Did that come from a military man looking down on a mere civilian or was it an acknowledgment that any physical disability was an unacceptable weakness? Either way, or some other reason, meant Donnelly had his work cut out getting the officer to heel like a proper cur.

  “If you require further medical attention, my corpsman had extensive service during the war. He isn’t a doctor but has seen debilitating injuries of many kinds. Treating them is a specialty of his.”

  “That’s kind of you, Captain. The town’s doctor is capable of dealing with my wound.” Donnelly gritted his teeth. Moving his foot on the pillow sent lances of pain up his leg into his groin. That suggested what he would do to Knight when the damned rebel doctor was caught.

  “I suppose you want a report on our hunt for Knight.”

  “You haven’t found him. Why the failure, Captain? I thought you were a capable officer.” Donnelly saw the officer flush under his tanned, weathered skin. Such badgering only angered Norwood. Donnelly needed him cowed and obeying. Before Norwood responded, he hurried on. “Of course you are capable. I have seen your outstanding record and know you are saddled with lesser soldiers after your battlefield triumphs.”

  “How did you see my record?”

  Donnelly shifted tactics another time. More compliments were necessary. “When I spoke with General Sherman about the military presence here, he bubbled over with praise. Perhaps he shouldn’t have shown it to me, but his pride at having such an officer overwhelmed the tradition of keeping personnel files from civilian eyes.” Donnelly almost smiled. Buttering up the officer by appealing to his vanity and conceit worked better than browbeating.

  “General Sherman? You spoke directly to him?”

  “I did, sir. He is a busy man, but he gave me a half hour of his valuable time to discuss plans for this region. Texas will be an important part of the Union one day. To reach that point, we need to keep the populace in c
heck and to quash any rebellion until we achieve full potential.”

  “Keeping down the riffraff, such as Knight?”

  “The son of a bitch maimed me!” Donnelly half rose and immediately regretted it. He collapsed back. “Such an assault cannot go unpunished.”

  “He’s responsible for stealing a horse and possibly a carbine from a careless soldier. Those crimes deserve military justice. It will not do to let the civilians think they have free rein.”

  “You have disciplined those soldiers, of course.”

  Captain Norwood nodded curtly. Of course he had punished them.

  “There isn’t any report of finding him?”

  “All scouts save one have reported back.”

  “Where was that man’s territory?” Donnelly held his ire in check. Norwood ignored the obvious. If all the rest of his men reported back and one didn’t, that was the direction Knight had most likely taken . . . and the scout was dead in a ditch alongside the road.

  “To the west.”

  “Knight went west. If I were him, I would have gone south toward San Antonio. Are there others with him?”

  “How should I know that, sir? The scout hasn’t returned yet.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Captain.” Donnelly saw he had lost what goodwill and cooperation he had built with the officer. He softened his tone. “You are an experienced officer. Such a gap in your field intelligence means something. In this case it can only mean that . . .” Donnelly let his words trail off so Norwood finished the sentence and made it seem as if he had come to the proper conclusion.

  “. . . that Knight ambushed the soldier. Very well, I shall reconnoiter in force. To the west.”

  “Excellent, Captain. That is precisely what must be done. Good work. Bring him back.”

  “He will be captured and tried in a military court, not a civilian one. His crimes against the army take precedence over any slight he gave you.”

  “He crippled me for life! The doctor says I will need a cane to get around for the rest of my days. More than this, he stole horses. Three of them.”

  Captain Norwood chuckled. “I heard your hands were drunk in the barn when he stole the horses from your pasture.”

  “Don’t you have a fugitive to catch, Captain? To the west?” Donnelly was tired of the officer. If brains were dynamite, Captain Norwood wouldn’t be able to blow his nose. “Report back when you have news. Now go. I am tiring quickly.” Donnelly rubbed his leg and winced. There was no need for him to feign that. His foot felt twice its proper size and throbbed with every beat of his heart.

  “Sir.” Norwood came even more to attention, if that were possible, did a sharp about-face and marched to the door. As he left, he put on his hat.

  “Close the door, Captain. Were you raised in a barn?” Donnelly started to call for the maid to perform the small chore the officer hadn’t, then he saw the reason Norwood had not fastened the door behind him.

  A slender man had snaked between the door and jamb, looking more like a cat than a human with bones in his body. He wore a Stetson with a silver conch band. His fancy Kelly green brocade coat made him look like a tinhorn gambler. His vest gleamed in the sun, every ray catching another silver thread worked through the garment. A heavy gold watch chain dangled across a flat belly. Donnelly squinted to see if the fob really was a Masonic emblem. The gleam off the man’s silver conch belt prevented him making out such detail. Sleek black trousers tucked into the tops of fancy tooled boots tipped with silver caps strengthened the idea the man was an itinerant gambler, though he lacked a headlight diamond in his purple silk ascot.

  He turned to face Donnelly. That small spin caused his coat to flare out, revealing a shoulder rig with a six-gun secured under his left arm. Seeing Donnelly’s interest, he reached down and pulled back the coat on the right to reveal a second six-gun nestled in that armpit. “I’ve got more firepower than this.”

  “Can you use it?” Donnelly settled back. His question should have been taken as an insult. What fool carried two six-shooters like this who couldn’t use them? He wanted to see what reaction he stirred.

  It didn’t surprise him when he failed to get any reaction. The man’s cold dark eyes never blinked as they took in Donnelly from head to toe. His gaze lingered a moment on the ankle Knight had damaged, then went back to lock with Donnelly’s.

  “You don’t want to find out. Not firsthand.” The man kicked shut the door using the heel of a boot. As he moved Donnelly saw the pattern expertly cut into the leather. Skull and crossbones.

  “You’re here in response to my newspaper ad?”

  “The one in the New Orleans Times-Picayune, yes, I am. You placed other ads?”

  “Why is that important?”

  “I don’t audition for any job. I don’t have to because I am that good. Either hire me or forget me. Whichever it is, you owe me one hundred dollars.”

  “For what?”

  “Travel.” The man shrugged. Somehow a small-caliber pistol appeared in his left hand. The heavier six-guns remained in their holsters.

  “A parlor trick.” Donnelly lifted his walking stick to point at the gunfighter. He yelped when a knife cartwheeled through the air and pinned the sleeve of his robe to the chair arm.

  “That fancy walking stick of yours has a bullet and a firing mechanism in it. Don’t think you can plug me with—what did you call it? A parlor trick.”

  Donnelly released his grip on the cane where a slender trigger had unfolded after he twisted the gold knob and cocked the hidden gun mechanism. He tried to pull the knife from the chair arm to free himself but couldn’t.

  He glared at the gunfighter. “Free me.”

  “In a moment. I certainly want my knife back before I leave. First I want to hear what gent is worth me killing in exchange for a thousand dollars.”

  “You saw the army officer who left? He’s let this Johnny Reb slip through his fingers more times than I can count.”

  “This Johnny Reb, as you call him. He did that to you? Carved up your leg?”

  “He cut my Achilles tendon. I will be a cripple for the rest of my life. Yes, dammit, Dr. Samuel Knight did this to me, and I want him brought to justice. My justice.”

  “Doctor? He was operating and slipped up? Drunk?”

  “The circumstances don’t matter. Yes, I will give you one thousand dollars to kill him. I will give you two thousand to bring him back alive so I can deal with him in my own fashion.”

  The gunfighter smiled thinly. Without any movement, the pistol in his left hand vanished. He walked over, pushed the cane-gun muzzle out of line with his leg and yanked the knife free. Again, he performed a sleight of hand that made the knife disappear to some hidden spot Donnelly could not find.

  “Am I the only one hunting your Dr. Samuel Knight, other than the captain? I don’t audition for jobs, and sure as the Mississippi’s wide and muddy, I don’t engage in a contest to beat out any other bounty hunter.”

  “Is that how you think of yourself?” Donnelly had no liking for this man, but he got the feeling that hiring him would mean hiring the best. “As a bounty hunter?”

  “I consider myself a cold-blooded killer, but in polite society I refer to myself as someone who retrieves missing children. After all, every fugitive has a ma and a pa, whether they own up to producing such offspring as what requires my skills to fetch.” He began to saunter around the room, examining the furnishings and contents of closed drawers. “Nice place. Expensive artwork and fancy furniture from where? Boston? There is a style about that seaport, and you do have a nice piece of scrimshaw on the mantel whittled by some sailor.”

  “Do you guarantee you will bring back Knight, dead or alive?”

  “You insult me.” Faster than thought, he drew both six-shooters. Both exploded at the same instant, startling Donnelly.

  “You son of a bitch!” Donnelly craned around. The gunfighter had shot at the whale’s-tooth scrimshaw. His eyes widened when he saw that one bullet had barely missed
the carving on each side.

  “I’ll take the scrimshaw as a bonus when I return with your quarry. Alive.” He tucked both pistols back into the shoulder holsters.

  “You’ll have earned it. Knight might not be traveling alone.”

  “What do you want done with his companions?”

  “I don’t care. Knight is the one who has to pay.” Donnelly grasped the cane and tapped it loudly on the floor for emphasis.

  “You carpetbaggers surely do know how to live high on the hog.” The gunfighter gave a final appraising look and turned to leave. Facing away, he said, “Don’t bother insulting the Confederacy anymore. I was on the staff of Jefferson Davis. In truth, it was I who found a place for him to live in the Garden District in New Orleans.”

  He opened the door. A cool puff of air stirred through the room.

  “Wait,” Donnelly called. “I haven’t said I’d hire you.”

  “But you will. You’d rather pay me a thousand to kill than a hundred to just go away. Those are your only options. Either way, though, you will pay me.”

  He had started through the door again when Donnelly called once more to him.

  “What’s your name? You never told me who it is I’m hiring.”

  “You can call me Hector Alton.” He looked over his shoulder and smiled.

  Donnelly went cold inside at the mirth he saw there.

  “You can call me Hector Alton because that’s my name. Good day, Mr. Donnelly.”

  When Alton left, it felt as if a weight had been lifted, an evil weight. Gerald Donnelly knew he had done well hiring the New Orleans gunman. Knight had no chance of escaping retribution now. None.

  CHAPTER 11

  “It’s honest work,” Ben Lunsford insisted. He looked around the circle. Most of Hannigan’s men shook their heads. “You tell ’em, Doc. This isn’t something to ignore. Those people need help.Our help.”

  Samuel Knight wanted nothing to do with deciding such an important change in the way they had lived for the past two weeks. Edging ever more to the west, they had hunted small game to stay alive and even done menial jobs in towns along the road to earn a few dollars. Some of the men had objected to that. Johnny Nott in particular disliked being a flunkey for any man, much less one who ran a store and asked that he sweep out the storeroom or a livery stable owner paying two bits to get the stalls mucked.