Servant of the Law

by Dusty Richards

  After removing his hat, John ran his fingers through his hair. “The Coyote Kid poisoned by an Indian,” he said in disgust. Was she hired to poison him to keep him from talking or had it merely been an act of revenge? They might never know.

  “Well,” Rogers commented sullenly, “the whole world’ll know about it in a day or two. That newspaperman, Rawlings, is already writing a story about it.”

  Feeling frustrated by the careless law system, John glanced at the jail cells and then at the sheriff. “Sheriff, I’ll be back. You better double the guard here.”

  “What the hell for?” Rogers demanded belligerently.

  “The Kid has a lot more enemies than just one Indian squaw.”

  Rogers agreed glumly. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll be goddamn glad when this whole thing is over.”

  John Wesley never replied as he stalked past Neal. He ignored all the questions that the crowd shouted at him. Rogers was the politician, let him answer their questions.

  Mounted on his horse, John noticed that he had been carrying the jar of butter all this time. He almost laughed at the absurdity. As he took one last look at Sheriff Rogers, the man was making placating gestures with his hands as he tried to silence the crowd.

  As the horse picked his way up the path to the camp, John heard the other horses nickering at their approach.

  Dolly waved and came to meet him. “Well, John Wesley, you’ve returned,” she said as she took the reins.

  He nodded and waited until he dismounted and faced her to say, “They poisoned the prisoners today.”

  “Who did?”

  “An Indian woman.”

  She was shocked. “Not the same Indian woman who was at the cafe?”

  “I guess.” He frowned at her in puzzlement. “Did you see her?”

  She nodded. “Claire, who owns the cafe, said this Indian girl just showed up, was looking for work and willing to do it very cheap. Did they arrest her?”

  “Not yet. They can barely mount a two-man guard at the jail.”

  “Will we … will you go after her?”

  “I really can’t afford to leave here in case the ranchers try something. Although I haven’t seen anything of them, they could still be on their way here.”

  “I can’t believe that girl poisoned the Kid.”

  “Well, he’s not dead yet, him and Gar. But the other two didn’t last very long. The doctor thinks the Kid will probably recover.”

  She looked at him with a frown, uncertain whether she was glad the Kid hadn’t died so that he could stand trial, or if she would have preferred him to suffer in agony by slow poisoning. Too, she could not believe the Indian woman she had seen earlier was a murderess. But she had had no way of knowing what was in the squaw’s mind. Despite telling herself that, Dolly somehow felt that she had let John down. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the guilt.

  “I have some food ready,” she said in a subdued voice. “Oh, I see that you got some butter.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He gave her the jar, relieved to have it off his hands. Noting her unusually depressed expression, he felt a flicker of compassion. Most women did not affect him one way or another. But she was a different matter. If nothing else, he felt that they had almost become friends. At least they shared respect for each other. Being friends with a woman was a totally new concept for him, but he was surprised to admit he was not averse to the feeling. She was the first woman he had ever really trusted—what she said he believed. He closed his eyes; some things were just too complicated, like their relationship.

  The Kid felt too groggy to even raise his head off the iron bed. His mind wallowed in a deep fog and his guts felt on fire. Curled up in a ball on the bunk, he considered his depleted condition and how it had all happened. He could hardly believe that the Indian bitch had poisoned him. That damn Silver Bell had drank his whiskey and laid him. She belonged to those two rustlers that killed poor Leo. God, he missed Leo. If only Leo was alive, he wouldn’t be rotting away in this stinking cell.

  A violent eruption began inside his stomach, causing him to rise weakly to vomit. He was denied even that small comfort. Nothing was forced from his stomach. Nothing but the powerful depleting action that gagged him. A putrid stench rose in his nostrils and he lay back exhausted by his efforts.

  Two of the whiskey peddlers had died, their bodies hauled away like yesterday’s chamber pots. Gar was reduced to a growling, twitching mound on his bunk in the next cell. It was a shame, he lamented, that the son of a bitch wasn’t killed, but he was a hard case. And now that Gar had been moved to the adjoining cell, he was too weak to reach through the bars and choke him to death. He surmised that he and Gar had not taken in as much poison as either of the other two. Who knew why they had been spared?

  His plan to escape was still intact. The letter to Maria asked for her help. He had borrowed paper from that reporter and now his note to Beth was hidden in the pockets of the dirty pants that would be sent to her for washing. Soon he would slip a note to Claire with the same request for help as the other two. Surely, she hadn’t been in on the plot to poison him. He did not think she would do that, not when he had helped her long ago.

  Now, he needed sleep and plenty of it. If he didn’t strangle on his own gagging, he would make it another day. God, he could sure use some good strong whiskey to soothe his sore throat. The poisoning episode seemed as though it had taken place days ago, not merely earlier that day. And that stupid Deputy Neal had wondered if it had been part of an escape attempt. The Kid smiled to himself. Actually, Neal wasn’t too far off, the Kid admitted. If he hadn’t been so damned sick, he just might have taken a chance to make a break for it in the confusion. That damn copper-hided bitch needed to be taught a lesson. Oh well, tomorrow he would feel better. Maybe he’d get some kind of sign from one of the women he had written to for help. He just had to get through this night without dying.

  At the Harrington House in Prescott, Ella Devereaux laid her plans well. Waddle won several pots while gambling that evening and he came back to Harrington house, roaring drunk, well after midnight. She had waited up for him.

  “There you are—” he slurred, and swung his arms around loosely. “Had us a real streak of good luck tonight, darling. I got money in all my pockets.” He grinned foolishly and she stepped in close for fear that he would fall down.

  “My girl—” he mumbled and hung on to her. Supporting his weight hurt her injured ribs, but she wanted him upstairs in his bed, not retching in her fine parlor.

  “I’m coming, missy,” Strawberry said, raising her skirt in her hands and charging down the stairs.

  “Yeah, I like redheads.” He smiled and dropped his head as if he had passed out, hanging between the two women.

  “How did he ever get home?” Strawberry hissed.

  Ella shook her head. This was the drunkest he had been since he came to Prescott. The two started up the stairs supporting him between them.

  “You know I won lots tonight,” he confided to Strawberry, while they strained to haul him up to the second floor.

  “That’s nice.” She looked at the ceiling for help.

  “Both of you getting in bed with me?” He giggled, then snorted through his nose.

  “Sure,” Ella said, “if you’re man enough.”

  “I damn—sure—am.”

  “You sure are,” Strawberry said to soothe him.

  At last they reached the head of the stairs and both girls were breathing heavily. One of the other girls peeked out of her door, but Ella’s disapproving shake of the head made her slam it shut.

  Minutes later they dumped him on the bed. He groaned and passed out.

  “Get his clothes off quick,” Ella said. “I want him to think he had a party up here.”

  “Sure,” Strawberry said, tugging on his coat sleeve. Together they stripped it off him. Then, while Ella planted some of the counterfeit bills in the large roll she took from his coat pocket, Strawberry took off his shoes and more
bills floated out of them.

  “I’ll put a few in there, too,” Ella said, bending over to pick them off the floor. Though it hurt when she leaned over to reach for the scattered money, she felt so confident her plan would work, the adrenaline numbed her.

  Soon they had him undressed. Buck naked, he lay sprawled on top of the bed, his arms spread out. The trace of black hair that grew down the middle of his chest and stomach outlined his stark white skin. He was so vulnerable, so defenseless, she wanted to smash him with a chair, stab him a thousand times, even shoot him with her .22, again and again. She drew a deep breath up her nose. How had she ever loved him?

  Oh, for the innocence of youth.

  “What else do we need to do?” Strawberry asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  “Nothing my dear, nothing. He’ll do it all by himself tomorrow.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to be here when it happens?”

  “Yes, but I’ll hear the story over and over again in my parlor.”

  “You think it will work?”

  Tired of looking at his pot-bellied anatomy, Ella motioned her toward the door, and blew out the lamp. “Yes, it has to.”

  18

  “If that Indian girl isn’t a ghost, I don’t know what she is. We haven’t spoken to one person who has seen her,” Dolly said with a scowl of disapproval as they rode toward camp. All their searching of the countryside surrounding Snowflake had produced nothing.

  “No, she’s not a ghost, just elusive,” John commented. “The major once told me that an Apache could hide from an army and even escape from them though completely surrounded.”

  “Hmm. Well, we can’t surround her, ’cause we can’t even find her,” she grumbled.

  He looked over at her, mildly amused. “You must be telling me you’re tired.” He bit back the comment that she looked weary, as well.

  “No, I’m not tired,” she said defensively. She scowled at him from beneath the brim of her hat. No doubt he was planning to ditch her again. All he needed was one little excuse, and he was back on his soapbox. “I’ll still be in this saddle until you’re ready to call it quits.”

  “Mrs. Arnold—”

  “Mrs. Arnold!” she mimicked him acidly. “I’m damn tired of ‘Mrs. Arnold.’ You called me by my given name once and it didn’t kill you!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, startled by her sudden outburst.

  “No, John Wesley, you are not getting off that easy. The name is Dolly. Say it, Dol-ly!”

  “Dolly,” he mumbled. His eyes stared ahead as he rode. The name did not fit her, but he admitted silently that he had been thinking of her as “Dolly” for some time now.

  “Oh, forget it,” she retorted angrily. “You aren’t interested. And I damn sure would have a hard time putting up with you.” She put her heels to the gray and raced ahead.

  He exhaled hard and shook his head. For a long moment, he tried to retrace the conversation, wondering what had set off her fiery temper. He honestly did not know what he had done wrong. She was one of the few people that he felt comfortable with, but if he told her that, she might take it the wrong way. Besides, he thought, frowning, he wasn’t sure he would know how to phrase the words so they sounded respectful.

  By the fourth day after the poisoning incident, the Kid felt back to normal. He was once again playing checkers with Neal through the bars of the cell.

  “They ain’t caught that murdering Injun yet, have they?” he asked the deputy.

  “No. But that lawman, Michaels, and Mrs. Arnold have been scouring the country for her with no luck.”

  The Kid moved a checker, his mind not on the game. “Where did that Mrs. Arnold come from originally?”

  Neal shrugged as he jumped two of the Kid’s pieces. “Some say she just showed up at Arnold’s Store a few years ago. I heard that she was a saloon girl before, but I reckon folks are just guessing about that part.”

  “She ain’t bad-looking,” the Kid said. Neal had him in a bad position on the board. Almost as sorry as his position in jail. Beth Parker had probably found his note by now. Claire had taken hers without a sideways glance and pushed it inside her dress. And that wimpy Rawlings reported that he had mailed his letter to Maria.

  Neal smiled at the Kid’s careless move. “Yeah, she’s a good-looking woman. Your mind ain’t on the game, Kid. Must be on Mrs. Arnold.” Neal swept the board clear of Bobby’s checkers with his next move.

  “Yeah,” the Kid said, “let’s quit for a while. Besides, I need to go out back.” He cast a glance over at Gar. The whiskey pedlar was asleep. It was a period of time that the Kid savored because he was spared hearing the man’s grumbling.

  Neal pulled the keg back that held the checkerboard. He shouted at the new guard, “Check the street, Whipple. The Kid’s coming out.”

  Every trip to the privy was now a suspenseful journey for him. The smelly, fly-buzzing frame outhouse was the key to his freedom. When someone delivered that gun in the slot above the door, the Coyote Kid would be able to escape. He would be rid of those damn leg irons that made him shuffle. He would ride to the country of the señoritas.

  Rattling his chains, he scooted along in the gap between the saloon and jail to the unpainted privy. Behind him, armed with a shotgun, Neal marched with a glint in his eye.

  Despite their friendly games, he knew that Neal would shoot him if he had to. It was his job.

  He opened the outhouse door, trying to control his thundering heart. He pulled the door shut, then reached over the ledge above the door. His fingertips touched something familiar, the cool metal of a pistol. A shout of triumphant laughter nearly escaped him.

  In a swift movement he checked the gun, relieved to see it was loaded. Then he raised his pant leg and shoved the pistol inside his boot. It was a small revolver, but just right for his needs. He did not have time to gloat over his success. He must make plans.

  He unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants. No longer would he be a condemned dog on a chain. At last, he had the means of deliverance. Seated on the raw boards, he planned his escape while a hoard of flies buzzed in the breathless interior. The old Coyote Kid would soon be on the prowl again, howling his lonesome song and riding for Old Mexico like a prairie fire. He just had to decide when to make his move. There would be a right time to make a break for it, but he must plan every step very carefully.

  Wearily they dismounted and unsaddled their horses at the end of another uneventful day. Dolly’s bones ached while she stripped out the latigos. She glanced over at John. His endurance amazed her. When he set out to do something, he certainly stuck to it.

  “We keep coming up with nothing,” she complained. A quick inspection of the camp told her that the carefully banked fire was out. “Maybe, we’re looking in the wrong places.”

  “Where else would you look?” he asked, then added, “Oh, your fire seems to be out.”

  “My fire? Well, it’s your damn fire, too. I’m going to go take a bath in the stream. You can build it or eat raw food.” She grabbed a flour-sack towel and stormed off. She felt gritty, and the smell of horse in her nose was so strong that it burned her nostrils. Maybe a bath would soothe her flaring temper. Everything irritated her. She needed to escape from John, as well, maybe even from her own thoughts.

  Concerned about her obvious distress, he dared not follow her. He busied himself turning the horses loose to graze, knowing that they were so weary they would not leave the area. That chore completed, he decided to rebuild her fire while she was gone. It might help her get back to normal. She had been edgy for two days and he suspected he knew the reason. In a short while, the “Kid business” would be over. They would have to return to a normal life—go their own separate ways.

  Hunkered down on his boot heels, he soon had tinder burning in the firepit. The flames licked at the small pile of needles and twigs. The time they’d spent together tracking down the Kid had consumed both of them like a raging fire. He nodded his head as he considered
the matter of what was wrong with her. She didn’t want that fire to die.

  The Kid had considered his options. He tried to conceal his impatience. It was time to get out of the jail. Sheriff Rogers was gone somewhere, and he’d overheard Neal tell Whipple that Marshal Michaels was off again looking for the squaw.

  Whipple was a dour-faced man whom the sheriff had hired to help Neal. Some dumb farmer, the Kid figured, would be easy to run over. He planned to coax Neal into a game of checkers, then with the gun, get the keys that the deputy carried, and let himself out of the cell. Then he would release Gar. As much as he disliked him, he knew he might need his assistance to pull off the jailbreak. At the moment, Neal was gone to take Gar to the outhouse.

  The Kid quickly pulled up his pants leg. He glanced around to be sure that Whipple was not at the door. Hastily, he double-checked the small-caliber pistol, reassuring himself that it was loaded. He returned it to his boot and dropped his pants leg over it.

  The damn leg irons were at the ankles of his boots, but he would soon be free of them. Seated on his bunk, he daydreamed of a blue sky above him and freedom.

  Neal returned the grumpy Gar back to his cell. Bobby watched the deputy put up his shotgun.

  “You ready to get beat again, Kid?” Neal asked. The deputy smiled as he set up the checkerboard in front of the bars.

  “Sure am.” The Kid seated himself on the nail keg and scratched his leg. His gaze was on the deputy, who was placing the checkers on the board. A quick glance in that direction assured him that the cell-block door was closed. There was no sign of the other guard.

  “Where’s Whipple?” he asked casually.

  “Oh, he’s gone to order something at the store.”

  The Kid nodded. Then in one lightning sweep, he stuck the pistol in the deputy’s face. “Don’t try anything, Neal. I ain’t wanting to kill you. Just give me the keys, careful like, and don’t try nothing.”