Fatal Justice

by Ralph Compton

  “He has a sickly look about him,” O’Flynn said. “Noticed it right off but I didn’t pry.”

  “Hope whatever he has isn’t catching. I could do without consumption, thank you very much.”

  “You worry too much, Harry.”

  “Worry keeps a man breathing.”

  “Put down his legs and get the door,” O’Flynn directed.

  “Is it the creek with him, then?”

  “We drowned the last one. Another so soon might arouse suspicion. We’ll knife this one and leave him in that alley off Colvert Street.”

  Ash was deposited on the floor none too gently. A door opened and a rush of fresh air helped steady his swirling head. They picked him up, carried him out and set him down again.

  “Where in hell is the buckboard?” Harry said. “Doyle was supposed to leave it here when he got back.”

  “Damn. It’s probably out front. Watch our pigeon while I go fetch it,” O’Flynn said.

  “There’s no hurry. No one ever comes back here.”

  “Even so.”

  Ash listened to O’Flynn’s fading footsteps, then cracked his eyelids. Faint light from windows cast the alley in gray relief. Harry had produced a tobacco pouch and a pipe. Ash marveled at how casual they were about murder and robbery. They’d grown sloppy and it was about to cost them. They hadn’t searched him for weapons; he still had the Remington pocket pistol.

  Grinding his teeth against the pounding in his head, Ash bided his time to regain his strength. He had been a fool. He’d trusted someone and look at where it got him.

  The man called Harry filled the pipe’s bowl and replaced the pouch. He went to light the tobacco. A woman laughed somewhere close by and he glanced down the alley but showed no alarm.

  Ash slid his free hand under him and went to push up. He couldn’t. A feeling of weakness had come over him, whether from the blow or his condition, he couldn’t say. He tried again and once more and reluctantly let his muscles relax.

  Harry commenced to pace. Puffing clouds of smoke, he walked about ten feet and came back again. “Where the hell is he?” he muttered with the pipe stem in his mouth.

  Ash was glad it was taking O’Flynn so long. He attempted to rise once more and this time tingled with delight when his body reacted as it should. He was about to stand and go up behind Harry when clattering and rattling at the far end of the alley signaled O’Flynn’s return.

  “About damn time,” Harry said.

  Ash rolled onto his back. The clattering drowned out the click of the pocket pistol’s hammer. Holding it in both hands, he aimed at Harry’s back but didn’t shoot. Harry would be second. He wanted the other one to die first, the one who had played him for a jackass.

  Out of the dark materialized the horse and the buckboard. O’Flynn had his bowler pushed back on his head at a jaunty angle, and was whistling. “Here we are,” he needlessly announced.

  “Took you long enough.”

  “A parked wagon had boxed it in. They were loading a heavy crate and I had to wait.”

  Ash aimed at the pale moon of a face between the muttonchops. He fired and had the satisfaction of seeing a hole appear smack between O’Flynn’s eyes. Harry spun and clawed a hand under his jacket. Ash shot him in the chest. He had aimed at the heart, but he must have missed because Harry’s hand reappeared holding a pistol. Ash shot him again. That should have been enough, but Harry took a staggering step toward him.

  “I don’t die easy!”

  Ash shot him in the face. The lead did the job but Harry fell forward, not backward. Ash threw himself to one side. He wasn’t quite fast enough. The lifeless form fell on top of his legs. The man wasn’t big or heavy but when Ash went to push him off, his chest flared with pain and the all-too-familiar feeling of pressure.

  “No.” Ash fought down panic and pushed harder. He had to get out of there. Their friends would come, and if they caught him helpless, they were bound to finish him off.

  Loud voices broke out, shouts from both ends of the alley.

  Sweat poured from Ash as he exerted his sinews to their utmost. The body rolled off and he lurched to his feet. The pressure persisted, making it hard to breathe. The beat of his heart was like the beat of a sledge on metal.

  More voices rose, this time from inside the saloon.

  Ash cast wildly about. He had nowhere to hide and was in no shape to run. He took a wobbly step and heard the patter of feet running down the alley. Without thinking he dropped onto all fours and scrambled under the buckboard. None too soon. Legs appeared even as the back door to the saloon was flung wide and out spilled more light.

  “What the hell!”

  “Two men have been shot!”

  Other people spoke, men and women, a babble that grew as more and more arrived, both from within and without.

  “Anyone know who these men are?”

  “Someone should go for the law.”

  The crowd kept growing. On hands and knees Ash moved to the rear of the buckboard. He had been lucky in that the shots hadn’t spooked the horse. Noise and commotion didn’t seem to bother it.

  “Any sign of the shooter?” a man asked.

  “He must have run off,” speculated another.

  Ash peeked out. Most of the crowd ringed the front of the buckboard and the crumpled figures. Few were at the rear and those that were had their backs to him. Holding the pocket pistol under his jacket, Ash eased out. He slowly rose, using the buckboard for support.

  The pressure was worse. The pain too. Fortunately no one paid any attention when Ash turned and made for the end of the alley. He had to take small steps. Each threatened to be his last.

  Somehow Ash made it to his boardinghouse. He sighed with profound relief when he closed his door behind him. He sat on the bed, opened the kit the doctor gave him and injected morphine. The bliss that soon came over him was wonderful. He sank onto his back and floated on the inner tides of a pain-free sea.

  Ash made two decisions then and there. First, he would never again venture anywhere without morphine. Second, he would never again trust another human being. He had learned his lesson at last.

  It was dog eat dog in this world. Only a fool believed otherwise.

  Chapter 12

  Ash woke up and heard snoring. It perplexed him. He didn’t understand how he could be awake and snore. In his befuddled state it was a few seconds before he realized it was someone else who was rumbling like an avalanche.

  He looked around. He was in his room in the boardinghouse. Pale light framed the window. He figured it must be close to dawn.

  Another snore caused Ash to turn. Frannie was on her back, naked as the day she was born, her mouth agape. They must have made love but he didn’t remember it. His head felt thick and sluggish. His mouth was filled with invisible cotton.

  On the small table was the explanation: an empty bottle of whiskey. He had been doing a lot of drinking lately. A lot of drinking. His days and nights were fogs of forgetfulness. He knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t stop. It helped with the hurt. Not the hurt of the lead lodged near his heart but the deeper hurt of how damn cruel life was. None of it made sense anymore. Everything he’d taken for granted, everything he’d believed, had been turned on its head.

  Ash sank back down. He tried to shut out Frannie’s snoring but couldn’t. He got up and went to the window. Parting the curtains, he looked out. He had been right. Dawn was breaking. The street was nearly deserted. A milk wagon rattled by. A cat went slinking past. Pigeons had roosted on the roof across the street.

  Another snore brought a frown of irritation. Ash went around the bed and cuffed Frannie on her thigh. She mumbled and stirred but didn’t wake up. He cuffed her harder.

  “What the hell? That hurt.”

  “I want to be alone.”

  Frannie smacked her lips and groaned. “Damn. That was some night we had, wasn’t it? You’re a wild one when you get fired up. I feel as if I’ve been through the wringer.”

&nbs
p; “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “What, you’re kicking me out? That’s a hell of a note.” Frannie slowly sat up. “I don’t know as I like being treated like a floozy.”

  “It’s not that,” Ash said. But it was. He suddenly couldn’t stand the sight of her and wanted her gone.

  “Oh. It’s that other thing. The bullet.”

  Ash gave a start. God in heaven, had he told her? “What bullet?”

  Frannie smacked her lips again and yawned and scratched herself.

  “The one in your chest. The one the doctors can’t get out. Amazes me how you can have it in you yet make love like you do. I swear, you acted like you were starved for it.”

  Ash gripped her wrist. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone else.”

  “Let go. You’re hurting me.”

  “Promise.”

  “All right, all right.” Frannie tugged loose of his grasp. “Damn it. You’re a bear in the morning, aren’t you? I don’t know as I’ll let you have me again if this is how you’re going to be.” She got out of bed and picked up a robe lying on the floor.

  “You weren’t wearing a dress?”

  “Hell. How drunk were you? No, I couldn’t sleep and came in to share a few. One thing led to another, and—” Annie grinned. She touched his cheek.

  “All in all I had a good time.”

  Ash went to the door and opened it. “Thanks.”

  About to tie the robe shut, Frannie frowned. “No need to be so cold. I’m your friend.” She patted him as she walked past. “See you later. Try to find your smile.”

  Ash threw the bolt and went back to bed. He lay staring at the ceiling. It was about time he admitted the truth. He wasn’t going to find Sharkey. Not in Denver. He had come all this way for nothing.

  Ash closed his eyes. So, what next? he asked himself. It was pointless to stick around. He’d run out of money, and then what? Revenge had driven him for so long that it was all he had. Without it his life was empty. All he was doing was waiting around to die.

  Ash remembered what Dr. Wilson had said. A sudden resolve came over him. He got up, filled the wash-bowl with water from the pitcher and washed and shaved. It had been so long since he used a razor that it was dull. It hurt to scrape off the thick stubble but he didn’t care. What was a little pain when he was still breathing?

  Ash dressed in his best suit. He donned his hat. He left and made for a restaurant he knew of. Along the way he passed a boy hawking newspapers and bought a copy of the Rocky Mountain News. At the restaurant he took a corner table, ordered eggs and bacon and ham, and sat sipping black coffee and reading.

  The front page was filled with an account of a stage holdup, the work of the Fraziers, three brothers who helped themselves to the strongbox and all the valuables the passengers had. The News lamented that the Fraziers were the scourge of the territory and took the law to task for not bringing them to justice.

  Ash’s food arrived. He folded the newspaper and pondered while he ate. When he was done he asked the waitress how to get to the marshal’s. The streets were filling. He ambled along, taking his time.

  As law offices went, it wasn’t much. Two desks and a rack for rifles and shotguns and a tired deputy who looked up from The Black Princess, an old Beadle’s dime novel he was reading. “What can I do for you, Mister? If it’s the marshal you need to see, he won’t be in for a couple of hours yet. He had to go to the dentist.”

  “I want to know about the Frazier brothers.”

  The deputy had gone back to reading but glanced up sharply. “What the hell for?”

  “I read about the stage holdup in the morning paper.”

  “Oh, that.” The deputy placed the dime novel, open, on the desk. “Did you know someone who was on it? A passenger was pistol-whipped when he wouldn’t hand over his diamond stickpin but he’ll live. The rest weren’t hurt.”

  “The Fraziers have been at it a while, I take it?”

  “Hell, those three have been terrorizing the territory for years. Got their start back during the gold rush. They’d hear of someone striking it rich and go rob him. Helped themselves to mine payrolls, marched into gambling halls and took all they could carry, those sorts of things.”

  “Have they killed many folks?”

  The deputy shrugged. “Five or six or maybe seven, the best I can recollect. The marshal would know better than me. He has a head for stuff like that.”

  “So you’d say the Fraziers are about as mean as they come?”

  “There are worse, I suppose, but they are mean enough.” The deputy leaned back. “Say, what are they to you anyhow?”

  “The newspaper mentioned a reward.”

  “So that’s it. You’re a bounty man. There’s a thousand dollars on each of their heads but it’s not likely you’ll collect.”

  “Why not?”

  “The same reason no one else has. The Fraziers know the mountains better than anyone. After they strike they disappear into the high country where no one can find them.” The deputy held up a hand when Ash went to speak. “Yes, trackers have been brought in and dogs have been tried and it’s always the same. They lose the trail.”

  “Have you gone after them yourself?”

  The deputy blinked. “Up into the mountains? Mister, there’s a thing called jurisdiction. You might never have heard of it but it means that the marshal enforces the law as far as the city limits.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “His jurisdiction is Arapaho County. Those mountains you see when you walk out that door and look to the west? They’re not in it.” The deputy smirked at his display of wit.

  “Other sheriffs, then?”

  The deputy’s smirk became a frown. “I don’t much like being pestered with so many questions so early in the day. Why is this so important to you?”

  Ash decided to own up. “I’m planning to go after the Fraziers. I can use all the information I can get.”

  “Then I was right. You are after the money on their heads.”

  “No.”

  “Did they kill kin of yours? Did they rob you or someone you know?”

  “No.”

  “Then why, for God’s sake?”

  Ash gazed out the window at the flow of people and riders and wagons, and sighed. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  The deputy rose and came around the desk. “Listen, Mister. Whatever you’ve been drinking, stop. It’s got you addlepated. No one goes looking for the Fraziers without good cause. Or didn’t you hear the part about them being killers?”

  “Thanks for your help.” Ash touched his hat brim. He was surprised when the deputy put a hand on his arm.

  “Hold on. Are you hankering to get yourself bucked out in gore? Because the Fraziers will sure as hell oblige you.”

  “I have it to do.”

  The deputy looked into Ash’s eyes, his forehead furrowing. “Suit yourself. Then listen. Park County is where they’ve done most of their robbing and killing. Head southwest, up into the mountains. There’s a small town called Kester. Ask around for an old Ute who goes by the name of Broken Nose. If anyone can help you find the Fraziers, it’s him. He knows the high country as good as they do, if not better. He used to be the best tracker in the whole territory besides.”

  “Used to be?”

  The deputy hesitated. “Like I said, he’s old. You might have to talk him into it.”

  “I’m obliged.”

  “Save your thanks,” the deputy said. “I haven’t done you any favors if it lands you in a early grave.”

  “Not so early,” Ash said.

  By noon he was ready to ride out. He’d bought supplies and a pack animal to tote them. He wished he’d kept the grulla, but he’d given it to a farmer in a soddy out on the prairie. The farmer had put him up for the night and invited him to supper. The family was so poor that none of the six kids had shoes and the wife owned only one threadbare dress.

  Ash vowed it would be his last act of kindness for a
while.

  The road up into the mountains was well used if rugged. Ash seldom had it to himself. At night he avoided the areas where most camped and picked secluded spots where he wouldn’t be bothered. He wasn’t feeling sociable.

  The mountains were breathtaking. Miles-high peaks reached to the sky, some mantled with snow year-round. Maples and ash were common lower down, spruce and fir higher up. Gambel oaks thrived in the canyons. Golden pea covered the valley floors with bright yellow petals, gaillardias added splashes of color to many a meadow, while the road itself was often bordered by ragwort. Now and then Ash spied bright scarlet flowers that grew in clumps. He had no idea what they were.

  Deer were common but stayed shy of the road; too many had fallen to the guns of hungry travelers. Twice Ash spotted elk in the distance. He saw hares and jack-rabbits. He grinned at the antics of ground squirrels. Tree squirrels chittered at him from high branches.

  The third evening out, Ash glimpsed a pair of coyotes slinking across the road. Shortly thereafter he reined into the woods. A small clearing was suitable for his camp. He gathered enough firewood to last the night and soon had coffee on.

  Ash hadn’t had an attack in so long, he left the morphine in his saddlebags. He’d begun to toy with the notion that maybe Doc Peters had been wrong. Maybe he’d experienced the last of them. Maybe he’d live to old age, after all.

  The crack of a twig brought Ash around, his hand on the Remington.

  A man of forty or so, dressed in shabby clothes, froze with his empty hands out. “Have a care there, hoss. I don’t mean you harm. As God is my witness, I don’t.”

  “What do you want?” Ash peered into the trees, but the man appeared to be alone.

  “I smelled your coffee and thought you might spare a cup.” The man stared longingly at the coffeepot. “I’m sorry to impose, but I’m down on my luck.” His clothes hung so loosely on his frame that it was obvious he hadn’t eaten regular in a long time.

  Ash almost told him to turn around and leave. Instead he motioned and said, “Have a seat.”

  “I thank you.” The man smiled and quickly sat close to the fire. “It’s nice to know the milk of human kindness hasn’t dried up.”