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The deputy called Neal gave the Kid a shove toward the doorway. When he entered the cell block, Bobby instantly recognized the burly whiskey peddler behind the bars. The other two lined up to watch him were also members of the gang. How damn convenient for him, he mused. The rotgut makers were right there.
“Ha! So they got you, too, Kid?” Gar sneered. “That damn preacher-lawman and woman ran down the great Coyote Kid. Sounds like a joke, huh, Kid?” Gar taunted. His loud laughter grated on Kid’s nerves, but he smiled back at the big man. It was the kind of warm smile that hid all the hate and anger raging inside him. He had not forgotten the poison they had sold him. Still, he continued to grin as if this whole episode, his arrest and seeing them again, amused him.
“Is the room service here any good?” he asked Neal.
“Sure.” The deputy grinned. “Just ask them birds.” He jerked his head toward the peddlers.
“Yeah, nice fellows.” In a lower tone the Kid added, “Just don’t drink their damned old whiskey. It could kill ya.”
Neal nodded and unlocked the empty cell. “Now, don’t try nothing, Kid. We ain’t fools here. We heard about your tricks in New Mexico, and there ain’t nobody going to sneak you a gun in this jail.”
The Kid grinned at the deputy as he centered the eight-by-six cubicle that he considered would be his home for a while. But he didn’t believe for one moment that sometime there wouldn’t be an opportunity for gaining his freedom. They wouldn’t think about his escaping twenty-four hours a day like he would. That would make the difference. He needed one little slipup—all jailers made them—and it would be up to him to use it to his advantage.
Down the hall, inside the sheriff’s office, John Wesley filled out the report for the judge. He ignored Sheriff Rogers’s pacing, but listened resignedly to the man’s sharp questions.
“Just who in the hell are you, John Wesley Michaels?” Rogers demanded. “And why is Mrs. Arnold outside on my street?”
“Because she—” John broke off and frowned at the sheriff. For a long moment he considered telling the man that she was none of his business, then a better answer came to him. “I suggest you go out there and ask her yourself.”
“I will. I’ll do just that,” Rogers declared, although he made no move. He peered with evident suspicion at John’s face. “Are you part of this damned secret force of the governor’s?”
“Hardly secret!” John scowled. “And I certainly don’t want your job, Sheriff Roger.”
“My job?”
“Sure, you’re the man who captured the Coyote Kid.” John stood up. “Just sign your name to this arrest report. I’m sure there will be a lot of reporters here in a few days to interview you. I can see the headlines now: ‘Sheriff Rogers Brings in the Coyote Kid.’”
“What kind of trick is this?”
“No trick.” John shook his head wearily. “We have one goal, you and I. To get all the Coyote Kids, whiskey peddlers, and crooks into jail. It doesn’t matter who gets credit for doing it. I’m not here to take over your job. And I don’t want to talk to any reporters.”
“I suppose that Yankee son of a bitch of a governor hired you and sent you here.”
John sighed inwardly, growing heartily sick of the man. “I’m leaving now.”
Rogers nodded uncertainly, but John could see that the sheriff was still suspicious. There was nothing more to say. It was depressing to bring in a killer like the Coyote Kid, and be met by a supposed comrade in arms who was as distrustful as Sheriff Rogers. It was degrading, as well, and at that moment John Wesley was fed up with the whole system. Dolly was right about him. Sheriff Rogers was indeed a strange man. Ignoring Rogers’s searching look, John stalked outside. He scanned the crowd until he spotted Dolly.
When he reached her side, she asked flatly, “Is he all locked up?”
“Yes. “
“Good, let’s ride.”
He nodded, but wondered if she was as satisfied as she sounded with her son’s killer being locked up. A bigger question irritated him. Why was he so grateful that she was still out here waiting for him, instead of riding off on her way back to the store?
After a week in jail, the Kid felt totally defeated. The cause for his dejection were the leg irons that the sheriff had ordered put on him. Rogers had told him, “Kid, this ain’t no New Mexico joke. We’re going to make damn sure that you don’t get a gun or any chance to escape.”
Each time Bobby took a walk around the small cubicle he was forced to carry the heavy chains that bound his feet. Every trip to the outhouse behind the jail was a grim reminder that he could not run away while he was so encumbered.
It galled him because the whiskey gang laughed at his predicament when he paraded by them lugging his chains.
“Hey, Kid,” Gar shouted, “they really got you this time. All chained up like a damn old dog.”
Their constant harassment was a dull knife stuck in his side. He promised himself some form of vengeance for every one of their digs at him.
The only bright spot regarding his captivity was the fact that he knew the woman who delivered their food. The first time she brought the prisoners their meals, he recognized Claire. She barely glanced at him, but he knew she remembered him. For one fleeting moment their eyes met, then she hurriedly looked away.
“Don’t get too friendly with the guy in the next cell,” Gar had warned her. “That’s the Coyote Kid; he’s a killer.”
“Go to hell,” the Kid had shouted at him, scooting his feet and holding up the chains so he wouldn’t trip. That was the first time he had seen Claire. He had to find some way to talk to her. Maybe she could get him a gun. It had been years since he had pleasured himself with her. Hell, he had staked her with money long ago, enabling her and her man to get away from the desert. She certainly should remember that good deed. Best he could recall, she even enjoyed him. Now all he needed was the opportunity to speak to her in private.
To while away the time, the Kid played checkers with Neal. The table was set up outside the cell. The deputy was a good enough player, yet a lot of the time the Kid let him win, hoping Neal would lower his guard sometime. At least he was capable of silencing Gar’s loud mouth. For that alone, the Kid was grateful to the young man. Obviously, there had been some kind of altercation between Neal and Gar before he got there.
“Gar!” Neal would say. “Get over there on your bunk and shut your mouth!” Oddly enough, that was all it took for the burly man to retreat in silence.
Each day, morning, noon, and night, Neal individually marched the prisoners to the outhouse behind the jail. His sawed-off shotgun discouraged any escape attempts. It was while the Kid was seated over the outhouse’s rough-cut opening that he spied the obvious place to stash a pistol. The ledge above the door would provide the perfect hiding spot. The idea rejuvenated him. Now he simply had to get word to someone. Claire? he wondered. But how? At the moment he did not know, but it was enough that he had a half-formed plan. Somehow he would get someone to hide a pistol in the outhouse.
Days dragged by like weeks. A reporter from Sante Fe came to interview him. Neal handcuffed Bobby to a chair and allowed the reporter to question him. Delbert Rawlings was a four-eyed little man, timid as a rabbit. He scrawled the Kid’s answers on a sheaf of papers.
“Did you kill the outlaw Jim Nance?” Rawlings asked.
“Nah.” He shook his head. “Apaches must have killed him. I heard he was scalped; that ain’t my style.”
Rawlings swallowed so hard that the Kid could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down.
“Sure, everyone has their own way of handling things like that, and that ain’t my way.” The Kid spoke offhandedly as he studied the rack of Winchester repeaters hanging on the wall.
“How many men have you killed?”
“Well, how many do they say I’ve killed?” the Kid asked in amusement.
Rawlings gazed at him intently before answering. “Oh, a dozen or more.”
“You have?”
The Kid felt weary of this wimpy reporter, but he was grateful for the opportunity to study the outer office. “Sure. Haven’t you heard of me in Sante Fe?”
“Yes, but how do I know what’s true and what’s legend!”
He lifted his left hand, his eyes glittering in rage. But the chair held him and the handcuffs restrained him. He dropped the chains from his clenched fist. The sound startled Rawlings and he bolted upright.
“They say you shot two stage robbers in Colorado?”
The Kid shook his head in disgust. “They say. Who the hell are ‘they’?”
“Mr. Budd, I’m merely using the term ‘they’ as you would a word to represent all the legends about your life.”
“Legends? Legends are fairy tales, ain’t they?”
Rawlings nodded. “Sure they are. That’s one of the reasons that I’m here. I would like to separate fact from fiction.”
“You came from Sante Fe, huh?” he asked thoughtfully, rapidly forming a plan in his mind. “Hey, if I wrote a letter to a sister there at the convent—” The Kid stopped and glanced around to make sure no one could overhear his question. “Could you deliver it?”
“Oh, sure.”
“I mean a secret letter. I want to be sure this sister is the only one who reads it.”
Rawlings smiled and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “Certainly.”
“I tell you what, Rawlings, I’ll make a deal with you. You’ll hear all about the Coyote Kid so you can have your story, if you promise to deliver this letter for me without reading it.”
“To your sister?”
“No! To a sister. She’s a nun in a church, goddamnit!”
Rawlings’s mouth formed an O and he blinked several times. “Oh yes, I see now. We have a deal, Mr. Budd.”
He tried to read the newspaperman’s face, wondering how trustworthy he really was. It was a risk, but he decided he would have to take a chance on the reporter. He knew that if he wrote a letter to Maria and tried to send it the regular way, Sheriff Rogers would read it. But Rawlings seemed the type of man to respect privacy—for a price. If he told the reporter enough so that he sounded like a big hero, the newspapers would buy the story and pay Rawlings well.
Bobby knew the newspapers back East ate up stories like his. The more improbable the lies, the more willing they were to believe them. He recalled a story about a gunman in the Silver City jail who told a reporter that he had shot lots of famous people. The story made headlines, even though one of the men he had supposedly shot was a lawman who was not even dead. Yes, he decided, Rawlings would agree to his deal. He would mail a secret letter to Maria. She would bring him a gun just like the last time r he had been in jail. Maria knew how important his work was.
So he began his story for an enthralled Rawlings. “I was born in Missouri. I ain’t too sure, but I believe my mother was a stage actress. It was while she was touring with those actors that she had me.”
“And your father?” Rawlings questioned, as he scribbled furiously.
He glanced around as if to be certain no one would hear his revelation, then lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Well, President Hayes was in St. Louis about nine months before I was born. It was the same time my mother was there on an acting tour. Of course, he wasn’t president then. He fell in love with my mother. Oh, it was sad. He was a Republican Yankee and, of course, she couldn’t marry him, her being a Southerner and all. My poor mother went to her grave clutching a picture of President Hayes.”
With a concerned frown, Rawlings glanced up from his scribbling and studied him. The Kid quickly continued before he could pick holes in his story. “That’s fact, Mr. Rawlings. ’Course, you can’t print that. I wouldn’t want to embarrass the president, but I’m telling you confidentially, it’s the gospel. Maybe you could just say that my father was a politician who could not marry my mother because of his family.”
“But that makes you a—”
“A bastard,” the Kid inserted grimly. “It’s better to say that than to smear a good man’s name. Right?”
Rawlings nodded without looking up from his writing.
The Kid was pleased with the beginning of his life.
He began to look forward to the time he spent telling Rawlings tall tales. He grinned at the thought of the papers carrying edition after edition of tales about the Coyote Kid episodes.
That evening back in his cell, he was surprised to see Beth Parker in the jail although he made no sign that he knew who she was. She brought him clean clothes, calling it an act of mercy.
“These belonged to my late husband,” she explained to Neal. “Since Mr. Budd seems to have no one to take care of him, I shall suffer my Christian duty and tomorrow take his clothes to wash them.”
Neal carefully inspected the clean clothing for a concealed weapon. “Ma’am, you certainly do good work for the Lord.”
“Yes, ma’am, you sure do,” the Kid agreed. “I’ll pay you from the money that the deputy is holding for me until my release.”
“Yeah, Kid, I’ll pay her for you,” Neal agreed.
“That would be good of you. And ma’am, thank you for your kindness.”
She nodded without expression and quickly hurried away.
With the fresh shirt and pants in his hand, the Kid shuffled back to his bunk. He was glad Neal had searched the clean clothes because he would never think of searching the dirty ones for a message. He would consider that he had done his duty by inspecting the incoming ones. All the Kid had to do now was to write a message to Beth as he had written one to Maria. And somehow he would also find a chance to ask the pock-faced Claire for the same help. One of the three women would surely get him a gun. Things were working out to his satisfaction. His spirits were revived. He stretched out on his back and stared at the ceiling, a smile on his lips.
“Hey, Kid!” Gar yelled, disturbing his tranquillity. “You’re going to be famous before they hang you, ain’t you?”
“Sure, Gar, sure I am.”
There were times, the Kid knew, if there had not been a vacant cell between them, he would have strangled Gar with his bare hands. But there would always be time for that later. First, he needed a gun. He had three chances of getting one. Two days earlier he had thought things were hopeless. Now he was confident they would work out. Killing Gar could wait for a while. He would get a chance to do that, too.
The early morning light slanted in the upstairs window at the Harrington House. Seated on the edge of the bed, Ella Devereaux cringed in pain as Doc Simmons probed her side.
“Hurt bad?” he asked.
“Yes,” she managed. “I can’t even raise my arm.”
“You’ve broken some ribs,” he said sternly. “That Waddle do this to you?”
“Doc, it has to be a secret. I don’t know what to do. But he’s moved in and taken over my business.”
Acting uncomfortable, Simmons looked around the room, then he nodded, satisfied that they were alone. He pulled up a chair and sat on the edge of it, close to her. He produced a snow-white handkerchief and began to polish his glasses. For a moment, he appeared to be in deep concentration about the matter of her problem.
“Have you spoken to the sheriff about him?”
“No, I don’t need a scandal over it, either. Besides, who would they believe in court, him or me?” She raised her brows, then shook her head to dismiss such a foolish notion. “Whores and madams are fair game, you know.”
“Well, I’d goddamn sure stop him if he was doing that to me. You have plenty of friends. Get them to help oust him.”
“Waddle is a tough man. He won’t go easy.”
Doc glanced over at her, then strapped on his glasses. “I’ll think on a way—”
“I don’t want you hurt, Doc. You’ve been so nice to my girls and me. No n
eed to involve you in my problems. I’ll think of a way.” She really meant what she told the man. There had to be a way to get rid of Waddle.
“Wear a corset. That will help until it heals.” Doc still acted put out when he stood up. “I’ll check around. Might be a way to get rid of him without a scandal.” He ran his palm over his white mustache and mouth. “There’s a way. Until then, you stop aggravating him.”
“That’s not easy, either.”
“Try hard. We’ll find a way,” he said, sounding upbeat, and grabbed his satchel. “Painkiller will let you sleep. You have that?”
“Yes,” she said and with a sharp ache rose to better hear the noise in the hall. She opened the door and blinked in disbelief.
Two burly men had labored up the stairs and were coming down the hall with a large trunk. She frowned at them.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Mr. Waddle paid us to deliver it right to his room. It’s his,” the first man said. “That black gal said his room was up here.”
“Down at the end of the hall. Put it in there,” she said with a wave. Her anger grew with each second at the thought of his taking over her apartment and shunting her off to one of the bedrooms.
“See you.” Doc waved his hat at her and went off down the hallway.
Something came to her as she forced a smile and acknowledged his departure. What was so damn precious in that trunk? Maybe she should investigate. First, she needed a lookout, so Waddle wouldn’t discover her trying to open it.
Not Sassy, the black girl might give it away if pressured. Strawberry, the redhead, would do. She’d keep her mouth shut. Besides, the girl had some finishing-school education. She’d made herself a bad choice of men and climbed over the fence one night to abscond with a gambler who had the same qualities as Waddle.
Ella hurried down the hallway after the two men left. She stuck her head in the girl’s room. Strawberry sat before the mirror brushing her hair and jerked around to look at her mildly.
Servant of the Law Page 21
