by Jake Logan
Excitement thrummed in his veins.
He was beginning to enjoy the hunt.
It was good to be alive and walking with a man like Slocum.
He did not feel like a traitor. More like a crusader, he thought. On a mission.
A deadly mission.
25
Bledsoe’s men began to gather in his hotel room. This gave him a feeling of security, bonded with more than a modicum of suspicion.
He studied each man as he opened the door and ushered them inside. He also noted which of his men had entered and which ones were missing. When the last man had entered, he looked at all of them as they sat on chairs or leaned against the wall.
“Where are Lew Crane and Barry Vernon?” he asked Jerry Bassett.
“Alec at the livery said they both come in real early, saddled their horses, and lit out of town. He said they had empty holsters and no rifles.”
Jerry looked sheepish and kept shuffling his boots back and forth as he stood near the bar. He looked downcast.
“They were on watch last night. Rooftop sentry duty,” Pete Eddings said. “Café was closed when I went by to break my fast this mornin’.”
“Shit,” Bledsoe erupted. “What in hell is goin’ on here in Sawtooth?’
None of the men answered him right away.
“It’s that hombre wearin’ the black duds,” Jerry blurted out. “He must have scairt them boys when he shot and kilt Tom.”
There was a sucking of breaths among the assembled men.
“Does anybody know who this man is?” Bledsoe asked. “He not only killed Brody, but he was with that asshole Nolan and killed Cass, the bastard.”
“We don’t know who in hell he is, but he’s in town and raisin’ pure hell,” Jerry said.
“Didn’t you say he’s joined up with Alvin, Jerry?” a man named Faron Hackberry said.
“Yeah. The man in black was with Alvin and I can’t figger that one out.”
Bledsoe wondered about that himself. But he thought he knew the reason. Alvin had been part of the plot against him from the very beginning. He had put his trust in Alvin and now he was showing his true colors. He was a sneak and a snake. He had been in cahoots with the man in black all along. Just waiting for his chance to go against him.
“He’s a damned traitor,” Bledsoe exploded. “I never did trust Alvin.”
The men in the room were aghast. Besides Tom, Alvin had been the man closest to their boss. Many had been envious of him, in fact. Now it seemed that Bledsoe knew the truth. Had known it all along. They couldn’t figure it out either.
Just then, there was a loud knock on Bledsoe’s door.
“Jerry, see who it is,” Bledsoe ordered.
His face was flushed orange and his neck was swollen like a bull elk in heat. He toyed with the pistol in his hand, rubbing its barrel as if it were his prick, rubbing it up and down between two fingers. The men in the room were suddenly very nervous.
Jerry opened the door.
The man standing there was Tony Delfino. Jerry hadn’t been able to find him earlier that morning. Now he stood there, trembling all over his body and out of breath.
“It’s Tony,” Jerry said over his shoulder to Bledsoe.
“Well, tell him to come in,” Bledsoe bellowed.
Tony brushed past Jerry. He was a short wiry Italian with a hooked nose, Mediterranean blue eyes, a heavy four-day beard, hairy chest and arms, and a blatant white scar across his left cheek.
Jerry closed the door.
Tony rushed up to Bledsoe.
“Boss, boss,” he blurted out, “I rode up on the rimrock to take Joe Toomey his lunch sandwich and he’s dead. Shot dead and his horse is wanderin’ around like it was lost.”
“What?” Bledsoe bellowed.
“Joe’s been shot dead. Big old hole in his chest. Stiffen’ up like a board. His rifle lyin’ on the ground.”
“Damn,” Bledsoe said. The other men in the room looked at each other and then hung their heads for a moment. Worry fluttered over their faces like clown makeup.
“And somethin’ else, boss,” Tony said.
“What else, Tony? Isn’t that enough, damn it?” Bledsoe’s face reddened ever more.
“There wasn’t no Chinese a-workin’ the mines. Valley’s as quiet as an empty church.”
“Did you check the Chinese bunkhouse?” Bledsoe demanded.
“I went by there when I come back, wonderin’ if they was all still asleep. I rode up and listened for a few minutes. Didn’t hear no sounds from inside. So I got off my horse and banged on the door with my fists. Nobody answered, but I heard small noises inside. I tried the door and it was locked tight. They’re in there, all right, holed up like rats in a cellar.”
“Shit!” Bledsoe exclaimed. “What in hell is goin’ on here?”
Nobody answered him.
Finally, Jerry cleared his throat and offered an explanation.
“It’s that man and Alvin,” Jerry said. “Sure as shootin’ it’s them.”
Bledsoe continued to jack his pistol off with two fingers.
The men in the room shrank against the wall or hunkered down closer to the floor as if to turn invisible in case Bledsoe went off his rocker, cocked that pistol in his hand, and started shooting them down, one by one.
“I think you’re right, Jerry. Another man down and gone and now the Chinese are in on it. It’s that assassin in black and that damned Alvin, the bastards. Somethin’ sure as hell ain’t right. Two men goin’ around, killin’ Tom and now Joe. I want them found and I want them killed. I want those swine dead and buried before nightfall. Hear?”
The men all nodded. Some of them grunted in assent.
Tony’s eyes blazed. Jerry’s jaw hardened.
“We’ll hunt ’em down, boss,” Jerry said. “They can’t hide from all of us.”
“Damned right they can’t,” another man said.
“Boys,” Bledsoe said as he tucked his pistol in his pocket, “I’m going to offer a bounty to the man who shoots Alvin dead and that man with the black duds. A bounty for their fucking scalps. Hear me?”
“Yeah,” the men chorused.
Those at the wall pulled away from it and became limber again. The men on the floor looked up at Bledsoe, suddenly interested in what he had to say.
“One thousand dollars to the man who kills that man in black,” Bledsoe said. “And . . . and five hunnert to whoever puts Alvin’s lamp out. Got that?”
“We’ll get him,” Jerry said. “We’ll get both of ’em.”
All of the men nodded, their faces reflecting their common resolve.
“By nightfall,” Bledsoe said. “Stamp them into the ground. Cut off their fucking heads. It ain’t dead or alive, hear? It’s dead. Dead, dead, dead.” His voice rose to a feminine pitch and was almost a squeak.
The men on the floor got to their feet. They all made ready to leave.
“Go, all of you but Jerry and Tony. The rest of you go out and hunt those bastards down. Kill ’em.”
All of the men went to the door, opened it, and left the room.
Jerry and Tony waited, their gazes fixed on Bledsoe.
“Boys, I want you to keep an eye out for Ralph Fossey. He ought to be comin’ in to report what’s goin’ on with them miners. You see him, you bring him straight to me.”
“You goin’ to stay here in your room, boss?” Jerry asked.
“Damned right I am. Until those two are wolf meat, I’ll be right here. And if they come bargin’ in here, I’ll fill ’em both full of lead.”
“Yes, boss,” Jerry said.
Tony nodded.
“Keep a sharp eye out for Ralph. If all else fails, he’ll bring both those boys down. Now, go on. He might go to the saloon first and he’ll either tie his horse up to a hitchrail
on the street or drop him off at the livery.”
Bledsoe ushered the two men out. He locked the door behind them. Then he walked to a wardrobe in his room that served as a gun cabinet.
He opened the cabinet door and reached inside. He pulled out a sawed-off Greener. He cracked the gun open and saw that it had two live shells in the twin barrels. He stooped down and picked up a box of 12-gauge buckshot. He closed the cabinet door and carried the box of shotshells to the table. He set them down and then laid the scattergun next to them. He sat down and breathed heavily for several seconds.
His mind was racing, inflamed by hatred and a conviction that every man in town was out to get him. First Alvin and now, who knew? He could no longer trust any of them who worked for him. And what about Ebenezer Scraggs and Alec at the livery? Even they were suspect in Bledsoe’s mind. And maybe even Delbert Wiggins, his lawyer. Where in hell was he? He must have known something was up, yet he hadn’t come to the room to ask questions.
The only man he trusted even a little bit now was Fossey. He had taken care of Jessie Nolan. He was to be trusted, Bledsoe was sure.
And he couldn’t wait until Fossey came down from the high timber and went after that traitor Alvin and the man in black.
Fossey would show them, all right.
He was the best killer a man could buy.
26
Ray MacGowan shut down his oven, dampened the flue, and smothered the firebox. He took off his dull white chef’s cap and hung it on a wall peg in the kitchen. He untied his grimy apron and hung it on another peg next to where he’d put his cap. He was a burly, muscular man with a potbelly that hung over his belt buckle like a sag of mush.
Deke Sutherland stood at the center counter and stacked elk meat sandwiches from a large tin breadbox.
“Mac, can you help me tote Tom Brody’s body out back when we’re finished in here?” Deke said as he put two more sandwiches in a separate stack.
The smells from the kitchen were still present, but subsiding. The garbage can teemed with thrown-away fried eggs, pork bacon, and boiled potatoes, the remnants of the two breakfasts never served that morning.
“Wished I’d seen it,” MacGowan said as he waddled over to help Deke. “I guess I’ll have to throw out that big pot of coffee since we’re closed up.”
“We’ll pack these sandwiches and take ’em to the saloon. Maybe we can sell ’em there for a nickel or a dime. Bring the pot of coffee with us, just in case anybody’s there this early.”
Ray snorted.
“And give it away, I reckon,” he said.
“Better’n to throw it out and waste good coffee.”
“Yeah. Who was that jasper who shot Tom anyway?”
“Never saw him before. But Alvin seemed to know him.”
“And he told you to close down the café, did he?”
There was a slight burr to MacGowan’s voice, a remnant from the highlands of Scotland. He and Deke were partners. They had just come off feeding a cattle drive on the Colorado prairie when Bledsoe approached them about opening a café in a place he called Sawtooth. Mining town, he’d said. And so they had rolled their wagon into Wyoming Territory and set up in a place already built for them by Bledsoe.
But since all the miners had left, they were in a ghost town, and now the man in black had shut down their café after shooting Tom Brody and running off Lew Crane and Barry Vernon, shy of their hardware. A hell of a note, MacGowan thought as he stacked sandwiches he had made for the sentries on day duty.
When they were finished, MacGowan set a large metal tray next to the butcher block. He and Deke lifted the stacks onto the tray.
“Got something to cover this while we lug it over to the saloon?” Deke asked.
“I’ll put a thin towel over it to keep the deerflies off,” Mac said. He opened a lower cupboard door and took a dish towel off the shelf. “What do we do after today?”
“We might have to pack our wagon and light a shuck for Texas,” Deke said. “Something’s going on here in town and I don’t like it.”
“You think the town’s dead?” Mac asked.
“As a doornail,” replied Deke.
They finished up and Mac blew out the last two lamps in the kitchen. It was eerie in the dim light. He watched the smoke curl from the chimneys and felt a deep sadness. He liked his job as a cook in a thriving little town and now it was over. He hated to go on the road again, scout out ranches way down in Texas or over on the windy plains to the east where the wagon would struggle to wheel through the high grasses of the prairie.
He grabbed the tall coffeepot off the cooling stove as Deke hefted the tray. They walked out the back door, descended the steps of the small loading ramp into the alley. Then they both walked toward the saloon, through the streaming rays of the morning sun.
“Suppose Jake or Ronnie has opened up yet?” Mac asked.
“Yeah, one of the two. And Joe’s probably there by now.”
“And who else?”
“Damned if I know. It’s plumb spooky. I don’t see no sentries up on the rooftops and there ain’t a sound to be heard. Just listen, Mac.”
Mac twisted his head right and left.
He looked up at the roofs and they were silent, too.
“No horses. Nobody walkin’ about,” Mac said.
“Yeah. Spooky. I think we’ve run out our string in Sawtooth, Mac.”
“You don’t think the miners will be back, Deke?”
“To what? A dead town. Or a hail of bullets. Hiram ain’t goin’ to give up what he’s built here. Not to a man wearing black boots and clothes.”
“All he has now are gunslingers,” Mac said.
“Yeah, and that’s what worries me. We could get caught in the cross fire with all them guns goin’ off.”
“Yeah, we could. You got the back of my neck crawlin’ with lice and spiders.”
“And down my scrawny back,” Deke said.
The back door of the saloon was not locked. They walked inside and through the storeroom to the saloon hall. It was eerily quiet, but they could hear the swish of a push broom, smell the lingering scent of cigarette and cigar smoke, the tang of whiskey and beer fumes.
Joe Filbert looked toward the two men as he wiped down the bartop with a clean towel.
“What you got, Deke?” he asked.
“Sandwiches and hot coffee,” Deke said. He walked to a nearby table and set the tray down. Mac removed the towel over the sandwiches, folded it up into a manageable square, and set the pot of coffee on it to avoid searing the tabletop. The aroma mingled with the other smells in the saloon.
“How come?” Joe asked. He stopped wiping and looked over at the stacks of sandwiches.
“Café’s closed,” Deke said. “Maybe permanent.”
“The hell you say.”
“Yep. The man who shot Tom Brody told me to close up shop.”
“Tom got shot?”
“Plumb dead. Alvin was with the man who killed Tom. They run off two others in there for breakfast.”
“Who was the man?”
Jake Hornsby stopped sweeping. He set the handle across a chair and walked over to where Deke and Mac were standing.
“The man’s name is probably Slocum,” Jake said. “Same man who shot them two Mexes here in the saloon.”
“How do you know that?” Deke asked.
“Saw Veronica this morning. She told me that Slocum is going to clean the town, along with Alvin. She’ll be in shortly.”
“Slocum? Don’t ring a bell,” Joe said.
“Well, he ain’t wearin’ work clothes no more,” Jake said. “Ronnie said he’s dressed all in black and we might run into him.”
“Run into him? Where?” Mac asked.
“Maybe here,” Jake said, and grinned with his gap-toothed grin. The beard stubble on his fa
ce was flocked with gray hairs as was the short, spiky hair sticking from under his cap. He smelled of apple cider and tobacco.
“Want a drink, boys? On me,” Joe said. “And I’ll have one with you. I wondered where everybody was. Saw a couple of men walkin’ real fast toward the hotel. Coupla those on night watch atop the buildin’ roofs.”
“Ah, so that’s where everybody is,” Deke said. “Probably meetin’ with Hiram about that man with Alvin.”
“Most likely,” Hornsby said. “That go for me, too, Joe? That drink? If so, I’ll have rye and I don’t need no lemon.”
“We haven’t had a lemon in here since the day after we opened,” Joe said.
“Whiskey for me, Joe,” Mac said.
“I’ll have a beer. Might settle my empty stomach.” Deke sat down and stared at the sandwiches. He looked at Jake. “Ten cents apiece,” he said.
“I got me a sour stomach,” Jake said. “I et an apple and drank some apple squeezin’s just before I came here. I don’t know if you’ll sell them samiches before they turn hard as bricks.”
“They’ll likely bring the flies in,” MacGowan said.
Just then, while Joe was pouring the beer and drinks, the batwings swung open. All the men stared at the two men who walked into the saloon.
Joe’s hand froze in midair.
Mac’s jaw dropped.
Deke’s eyes widened.
Jake’s grin turned south.
Slocum walked to a table, followed by Alvin. Both men laid their rifles atop the table and pulled out chairs.
The room was silent for several seconds.
“Gentlemen?” Joe croaked. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Red eye,” Alvin said. “Two fingers.”
“Kentucky bourbon,” Slocum said.
“Comin’ right up, gents,” Joe said. After he was done pouring, he nodded to Jake, who walked over to the bar and picked up the tray with their drinks on it.
Slocum slipped a cheroot from his shirt pocket and dug out a box of lucifers. He bit off the end of the cigar and placed it in the ashtray on the table. He recognized Deke as the server in the café, but had never seen the fat man sitting next to him. He knew the other man was the swamper in the saloon and nodded to him.
