Bounty Hunter (9781101611975)

by Yenne, Bill

  “Nearly a year ago, as I recall,” Ransdell said, picking up his glass. “There were four of us on that day.”

  “Indeed, there were,” Stocker agreed with sadness in his voice.

  “Shall we drink to a satisfactory conclusion of a sad affair?” Ransdell said. “To the bounty hunter’s having resolved the situation once and for all.”

  “To the end of the whole sordid mess,” Stocker suggested, touching his partner’s glass. “And to brighter days ahead.”

  “Hear, hear,” Ransdell agreed with a smile. “Now, are you going to open the damned letter?”

  “Indeed . . . after much adieu,” he said, crisply slitting the envelope with a letter opener.

  Isham Ransdell leaned forward as Stocker unfolded the missive.

  Beneath the formal letterhead of the railway company, and above a signature that carried the legend, “on behalf of Mr. Frederick H. Billings,” was a typescript containing more zeros than either man could have imagined.

  “Jackpot,” Isham Ransdell said. It was the only word that came to mind.

  Stocker smiled after a long pause. “This is but their opening offer.”

  Chapter 30

  EDWARD J. OLSON FOUND HIMSELF IN THE KIND OF situation his mother had always referred to as a “pickle.” He never understood why, to her, a conundrum was like a canned vegetable, but the analogy had permanently stained his vocabulary.

  When he had ridden north out of Gallatin City at the crack of dawn, he had expected to meet Blake and Clark on the trail with a line of horses bearing the bodies of the bounty hunter and the Porter boys. Just in case Blake and Clark had not accomplished their task, he had brought a further pair of hired guns to help him finish the job.

  One way or another, he had expected to reach Gallatin City with a line of horses that represented a line of loose ends, each of them neatly tied off.

  Then she appeared, unexpectedly, and as though out of nowhere!

  When he had ridden north out of Gallatin City at the crack of dawn, the last thing Olson would have imagined himself doing was riding back to Gallatin City beside Isham Ransdell’s daughter—and with Gideon Porter still alive.

  Where were Blake and Clark?

  They must be out here somewhere. If she had found the bounty hunter, certainly they could have as well. Were they complete fools or had they been spooked into inaction by the presence of Isham Ransdell’s daughter?

  If they had done their job before she had showed up, then Edward J. Olson would not be in this pickle, but he was, and he knew he must either eat it or choke on it.

  One way or another, Gideon Porter could not reach Gallatin City alive. If Gideon Porter pointed his filthy finger of accusation in front of everyone in Gallatin City, Olson himself would be in danger of the gallows. He cursed everyone involved in that fatal calamity at John Blaine’s house and himself for agreeing to be part of it.

  Her presence complicated everything. He must get rid of Gideon Porter, but he could not have her as a witness. He had to get her away so that his boys could take care of business.

  “Miss Ransdell,” Olson said at last, steering his horse close to Hestia. “May I have a word?”

  “Yes, Mr. Olson,” she said, smiling innocently.

  “I’d like to beg you to reconsider my offer to ride on ahead with me. I would very much hate to see you get hurt if there were to be trouble. These men are dangerous criminals.”

  “They don’t appear very threatening at the moment,” she said, mocking him with a naive giggle. “They’re both chained up. I don’t see how they could hurt anyone in such a state.”

  “Miss Ransdell, I’m afraid that this is not something that is open to discussion.”

  “What?”

  “As your father’s right-hand man, I am afraid that I must insist that we get away from these men and that you allow me to escort you back to Gallatin City in safety. The men have the situation well in hand.”

  “As you should know better than anyone, sir, his wishes must be respected,” she said, displaying a temper not previously in evidence. “I’m afraid that I cannot do as you’ve requested.”

  “This is not a request, Miss Ransdell,” he said, displaying a temper of his own. “I must insist.”

  “Then I decline your insistence, as I declined your request, Mr. Olson.”

  “You will do what you are told!” he said angrily. “I was your father’s right-hand man when you were in pigtails, Miss Ransdell. If you will not obey me, I’ll turn you over my knee as your father should have done long ago.”

  “I should like to see you try to do such a thing,” she said antagonistically.

  “You are a disrespectful girl demonstrating the behavior of a wench, young lady,” he cautioned.

  With that, he desperately grabbed for her reins.

  She deftly sidestepped the black mare, and his grasp fell short.

  “Aha,” Hannah exclaimed, taunting him.

  “Damn you,” Olson said, turning his horse to get near to her.

  The mare reared suddenly, but Hannah leaned into Hestia’s neck and did not fall.

  “What’s going on up there?” Bladen Cole yelled from the back of the procession, having seen Olson make a grab at Hannah’s mare.

  Olson grasped again for Hannah’s reins, and again he missed.

  “What the hell are you tying to do?” Bladen Cole shouted angrily, as Olson glanced back toward him.

  “Boys!” Olson shouted. “Take him now!”

  The young man closest to Cole, the one who had described Hannah as a “filly bronc,” went for his pistol.

  Alerted by Olson’s shout, the bounty hunter ducked as the first shot rang out, and fired the second himself.

  As the man toppled from his horse, the one behind him reached for his gun.

  The .45-caliber lead from the bounty hunter’s Colt impacted just below the man’s clavicle, ripping into his chest before he had a chance raise his gun.

  Cole glanced once at his dying face and at hands thrashing clumsily in the warm, rapidly flowing blood, and turned the roan in the direction of Edward J. Olson.

  * * *

  AS OLSON WAS WATCHING THESE EVENTS UNFOLD, HIS GAZE turned to Gideon Porter, the man who could, under no circumstance, ever set foot in Gallatin City.

  He pulled his own pistol from the holster within his coat and took careful aim. Porter was so near, and so paralyzed with fear, that he could not be missed.

  As he aimed his pistol at Porter, Olson felt what seemed to be a freighter’s wagon crashing down on his head.

  The sight of the near and vulnerable Gideon Porter melted into a dizzying grayness.

  Turned awkwardly in his saddle, and spinning in dizziness, Olson felt his balance lost.

  He had the sensation of the pistol tumbling from his hand as he reached out to break his fall.

  The collision with the ground was nearly as painful as the blow to his head.

  I must finish the job . . . Gideon Porter cannot live, Olson thought.

  Through the dizzying grayness and the seeing of “stars,” his eyes fell upon his pistol. He crawled and reached out to it as it lay on the ground in the light dusting of newly fallen snow.

  “Don’t do it!”

  Someone was shouting.

  K’pow . . . T’zing

  A shot had been fired.

  The bullet had ricocheted of the metal of the cylinder.

  Something had hit him in the eye.

  He rolled over and looked up.

  With his other eye, he saw Hannah Ransdell, still on her mare, pointing a rifle at him.

  “Put that gun down this instant,” he demanded in a creaking, sputtering voice.

  “Or what?” Isham Ransdell’s daughter asked. “Will you tur
n me over your knee?”

  K’pow . . . T’zing

  The second shot missed him by inches.

  “That’s for calling me a wench,” she explained. “Next time, I won’t miss.”

  * * *

  “DAMN YOU, BOUNTY HUNTER. HE’S THE ONE,” GIDEON Porter asserted as Bladen Cole rode up to find Edward J. Olson lying on the ground with Hannah Ransdell pointing her Winchester at him.

  “One what?” Cole asked

  “One what hired me to shoot those people.”

  “Now you tell us,” Cole said. “After all these days of keeping your mouth shut about your ‘friends in high places.’”

  “Looks like he was not your friend after all,” Hannah suggested.

  “And not in such a high place at the moment,” Cole added wryly.

  “He told me he’d take care of it . . . said that he’d take care of everything,” Porter insisted angrily.

  “Looks to be that his plan was to take care of it by taking care of you,” Cole mused.

  “You fool, you stupid fool,” Olson said to Porter as he stood up and brushed off his hat.

  “Is the fool right?” Cole asked. “Did you hire him to do those murders?”

  “You are all fools,” Olson said emphatically, walking toward his horse. “This is not over yet!”

  “Whoa, there, Mr. Olson,” Cole said. “You’re not dressed to ride just yet.”

  For Isham Ransdell’s right-hand man, being “dressed to ride” meant the proper jewelry, specifically the manacles that then held Jimmy Goode to his saddle. Because Goode was without the use of his right hand, Cole decided to secure him to his saddle with rope and to use that set of irons for anchoring Edward J. Olson instead.

  Chapter 31

  AS THE BANKER ENTERED THE LOBBY OF THE GALLATIN House, the hotel’s big imported German clock was banging out the five measured beats of the hour.

  He felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down to see John Blaine’s widow.

  “Mr. Ransdell, might I have a word?”

  “Mrs. Blaine . . . I didn’t see you. Good evening, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Ransdell, I must speak with you. Is there somewhere that we could talk . . . privately?”

  “Certainly,” Ransdell said. “Come by the bank in the morning . . . say around nine, before opening hours . . . you shall have my undivided attention.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t exactly understand, sir,” Leticia Blaine said in a hushed tone. “I must speak with you now.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m meeting Virgil Stocker for an early dinner at the moment.”

  “He should hear this as well . . . I have no secrets from my husband’s associates . . . May I join you?”

  “Well, I . . . uhhh . . .”

  “Then it’s settled,” Leticia Blaine announced. “I don’t see him in the dining room. When will he be coming?”

  “I was to meet him at his private booth,” Ransdell clarified.

  “Lead the way then, sir.”

  Isham Ransdell was in no small way unnerved by the way that Mrs. Blaine had inserted herself into his evening plans, but politeness demanded that the widow of his former partner could not simply be dismissed and told to go away to mind her own business.

  “Virgil, ummm . . . Mrs. Blaine has asked to join us,” Ransdell said as he slid back the curtain and they entered Stocker’s booth. “She has a matter of pressing urgency which she would like to discuss with both of us.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Blaine, what a pleasant surprise,” Stocker said, standing politely.

  “Thank you and good evening to you, Mr. Stocker,” she said, taking a seat at the table and seizing a napkin.

  “Isham, I took the liberty of ordering a plate of oysters,” Stocker said. “I know that you like oysters . . . Can’t stand them myself, but I know that you . . .”

  “I love oysters,” Mrs. Blaine said, helping herself. “Thank you very much, sir.”

  Stocker poured a glass of claret for Ransdell and offered to pour one for his late partner’s widow. She nodded.

  “A fine evening.” He smiled as he filled her glass and topped off his own. “No sign of snow yet, I believe.”

  “None that I could see,” Leticia said, eating another oyster. Given the complexities of shipping to a location not yet reached by a railroad, oysters were rarely served here, and a prized delicacy.

  Stocker offered the plate of oysters to Ransdell, who took it but did not put an oyster on his own plate.

  “Now, what is the matter you wish to discuss with us?” Ransdell asked, getting to the point at hand.

  “It is the matter of my husband’s murderers,” she explained.

  “Yes . . .”

  “It has been some weeks since you engaged that bounty hunter to track them down.”

  “Yes, that is correct.” Ransdell nodded.

  “I may be a foolish old woman, but it seems to me that a great deal of time has elapsed without his return. He was, as I recall, in pursuit of these scoundrels less than two days after they ran away.”

  “As I recall, that is correct, Mrs. Blaine,” he said.

  “In that case, may I be so impertinent as to ask what is taking so long?”

  “These things do take time,” Ransdell said in a reassuring voice. “As you recall, I did bring you up to date on that letter I received from Fort Benton.”

  “I do recall that letter, but as I also recall, that communication had been postmarked less than a week after your bounty hunter departed from Gallatin City. I further recall that your bounty hunter was headed into Blackfeet country, and you speculated that he and the Porter boys might come to their demise in that hive of merciless savages.”

  “Yes, I did,” he said cautiously.

  “Have you heard anything with regard to this?”

  “I have had reports since then.”

  “And when were you planning to share these ‘reports’ with me?” She bristled indignantly. “I am the widow of your own partner, sir, not just another old woman off the street.”

  “The simple answer is that these are unconfirmed reports . . . which one might call hearsay.”

  “And what exactly did this hearsay have to say?”

  “Some travelers who were passing through from up north claimed to have seen them in Copperopolis,” Ransdell said in a confiding sort of way.

  “Where on God’s green earth is Copper . . . opolis?” Leticia Blaine replied, raising a eyebrow. “I don’t believe I have heard of such a place.”

  “It’s located across the mountains, this side of the Little Belts, up in Meagher County,” Stocker interjected. “As you might surmise, it was once a mining town, but like so many mining towns, it withered practically to nothing after the easy ore played out. This would explain why you’ve never heard of it.”

  “A ghost town, then?”

  “Practically . . .” Stocker said.

  “And what in God’s name was your bounty hunter doing in this place?”

  “Apparently one of the Porter boys had been injured, and medical attention was being sought,” Ransdell explained.

  “Medical attention being sought? My husband was murdered by those thugs and medical attention is being sought?”

  “That’s what the reports tell us,” Ransdell said. Her rage was making both of the men more than a little nervous.

  “Mr. Ransdell, I was under the impression that the Porter boys were wanted dead or alive,” she said angrily. “Is that not correct?”

  Ransdell nodded.

  “Why is it that your bounty hunter is wasting time to seek medical attention for a murderer who by all rights should be brought back to this city dead?”

  “I do not know the answer to that,” he said. “I don’t even
know whether it is true that it really was Mr. Cole and the Porter boys who were in Copperopolis.”

  “If it is the case, I hope that whichever of the Porter boys was sick has by now gone to follow Milton Waller to Hades . . . and that your bounty hunter sees the light and brings the others back dead . . . not alive.”

  “Believe you me, Mrs. Blaine,” Stocker said. “My associate and I could not agree with you more that the lives of those nefarious criminals aren’t worth saving for the luxury of a trial.”

  “Can you . . . Is there a way to determine whether this hearsay is true?”

  “In fact, Mrs. Blaine, I hope to do exactly that,” Ransdell told her with a smile. “This very morning, my right-hand man, Mr. Edward J. Olson, started north on the most likely route between Gallatin City and Copperopolis to investigate. I’m not certain what he will find, nor indeed, whether Mr. Cole and the Porter boys will be found at all, but at least we may know something within the next few days.”

  “I certainly, hope so, Mr. Ransdell,” she said, not returning his smile.

  * * *

  THE PALPABLE TENSION IN THE PRIVATE BOOTH GRADUALLY dissipated as the steaks and boiled potatoes were served and conversation turned to other topics.

  Mrs. Blaine seemed visibly relieved at having unburdened herself, and the claret seemed to have somewhat lightened the mood at the table.

  “Would you care for some more horseradish, Mrs. Blaine?” Ransdell said, offering her the condiment.

  “Yes . . . I mean no . . . I’m afraid . . . that I am not feeling well,” she said, dropping her fork clumsily on the table.

  She had suddenly gone pale and her eyes had glazed over.

  “Here, take some water, madam,” Stocker suggested.

  “I don’t feel well . . . I feel that I am about to be . . .”

  She coughed as though about to vomit, then gagged.

  “Is something caught in her throat?” Ransdell asked.

  As both men stood to come to her aid, Leticia Blaine began convulsing, then collapsed into a heap on the floor.

  “I can’t . . . breathe . . .” she gasped.