Evil Never Sleeps

by William W. Johnstone

  His last remark caused Preacher to snarl. “Them saddle tramps ain’t gettin’ that money. I got better sense than to put it where they could get their hands on it. Don’t nobody know where that money is but me.” Hoping to strike a deal at this point, he made a proposition. “How likely is it for you boys to get a chance to see almost twenty thousand dollars in one pile? It’d take a helluva long time to save up that much cash money on a deputy marshal’s pay, wouldn’t it? If you were smart, you’d have a chance to set yourselves up in high style with that much money. And all you’d have to do to get it would be to turn me loose. Whaddaya say, Deputy?”

  “It might make it easier on you, if you tell us where that money is hidden,” Will replied. “If the bank recovered the biggest part of what you stole, the judge might go easier on you.”

  Preacher reacted as if astonished. “You mean if I take you to that money, you’d just hand it over to the judge? I can’t abide a man with an honest streak that wide. You’d take it, all right.”

  “I doubt he would,” Oscar said. “Now, me, I’d take it in a half a second,” he joked. “But then I’d have Will on my tail.”

  “I reckon we won’t sit around here talkin’ about it,” Will said. “We’re got some ground to cover. What I just said might still help you with the judge. When we get to Fort Smith, you can tell him where you hid it and we’ll let him send somebody back to get it.”

  “The hell I will,” Preacher spat defiantly. “That money can rot before I’ll turn it over to the judge.”

  “Suit yourself,” Will said. “Let’s go.” He gave Buster a nudge with his heel and started off at an easy lope. An interested party to the discussion that had just ended, Oscar shook his head thoughtfully, amazed that Will gave all that money no more consideration than that. He wheeled his horse and loped after him.

  * * *

  They rode for most of the rest of the night, following the Cimarron River southeast until the horses had to be rested, then they stopped to get a little sleep before starting out again in the morning. Will was anticipating a solid week of riding to reach Fort Smith, as always, strapping himself with the responsibility of transporting a prisoner without benefit of a jail wagon. Like others before him, Preacher was a dangerous man to transport, but Will had his set routines that took as few risks as possible. Moon rode with him for almost ninety miles before deciding Will could take his prisoner in without his help. Will had assured him that he could. Watching the way Will handled his prisoner for a couple of days, Moon was satisfied that his friend knew what he was doing, so he told Will of his plans to head back to his camp. He had moved his camp to a new spot, this time on the Canadian River. “With winter right on our heels, I’ve got a lot of work to do on my new camp,” he said. “And I need to do a heap of huntin’ to make sure I don’t run outta meat. I ain’t got no reason to wanna go to Fort Smith, but I’ll stay with you, if you need me to help you get this jasper to jail.”

  Will assured him that he had done this many times before without help and had not figured that Moon was going all the way to Fort Smith with him. “I appreciate your help once again. It’s gettin’ to be a regular habit. Before long, you’re liable to start runnin’ when you see me comin’.” So the next morning, Moon struck out straight west to strike the Canadian, while Will continued to lead his prisoner southeast along the Cimarron.

  As he had done with Elmo Black and Lon Jackson, Will pushed the horses for a full day every day. Sullen for most of the time when Moon was still with them, Preacher became more talkative as each day rolled by. Will was aware that it was intended to cause him to become careless, so in effect it encouraged him to be more wary. He knew that Preacher would make an attempt to escape and the closer they got to Fort Smith, the more desperate that attempt would likely be. At the end of the seventh day after leaving the cabin on the Cimarron River, Will was forced to stop when within fifteen miles of the Arkansas River crossing into Fort Smith. Both men and horses were weary from the extra-long day of travel as Will ordered a stop beside a small creek.

  He couldn’t help noticing the look of severe fatigue in the face of his prisoner when he marched him over to a small tree and handcuffed his hands around it. Accustomed to the ritual after a long week, Preacher offered no resistance to being shackled to the tree while Will took care of the horses, then built a fire. Will could pretty well guess how Preacher was feeling; with no opportunity to escape, he had apparently finally accepted his fate. The only resistance he demonstrated now was his refusal to say where he had hidden the stolen money. And that was not a huge concern to Will because he really didn’t care if the bank recovered it or not. In the midst of filling the coffeepot, he was suddenly struck with the realization that he was weary of the quality of life afforded him in his chosen profession. He turned to glance over his shoulder at the sullen figure handcuffed to a tree and told himself he was tired of spending virtually all of his life with men of Preacher’s character. He shook his head, trying to rid it of such thoughts, for the image that usually followed them in his mind was one of Sophie, and the thinly veiled ultimatum she had given him. Fifteen miles from home, he told himself, it’s time to make good on the promise I gave her. His mind made up, he turned his attention back to the chore of cooking some food for his prisoner and himself.

  It was a good thing there were only fifteen miles to travel in the morning, he thought, for he was cooking up the last of the bacon for their supper. Sowbelly and coffee was all they had to eat for the last half of the week. “This oughta make eatin’ at the jail seem like the Parker House,” he joked when he walked over and placed Preacher’s supper on the ground.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Preacher murmured, and held his hands up to be freed. Will unlocked the handcuffs, quickly stepped back and drew his .44 as Preacher shook the manacles off and moved away from the tree to eat his supper. He took a bite of the bacon and chewed it thoroughly before chasing it down with a swallow of strong coffee. “We’re damn near Fort Smith, ain’t we?”

  “Be there in the mornin’,” Will said, “and you can sleep on a cot tomorrow night, instead of huggin’ a tree.”

  “Don’t reckon you’ve changed your mind about gettin’ rich,” Preacher said.

  “Reckon not. Might be you can make a deal with Judge Parker to go a little easier on you, if you tell him where the bank’s money is hid.”

  “Maybe so,” Preacher allowed, and shook his head doubtfully. He finished his coffee and placed the cup on his empty plate. “I need to get rid of that coffee now, all right?” Will nodded and backed away a few steps while holding his .44 on Preacher. Then he stood, guarding him while he relieved himself. “I ’preciate it,” Preacher said when he’d finished, then he walked back to the tree. “You know, it’s been a real pleasure travelin’ with you, Tanner, but I’m damn tired and I’ll be glad to get to that jailhouse in the mornin’.” He chuckled. “I never thought I’d ever hear myself say I was gonna be glad to get to jail. I don’t know, though. You’ve got me used to sleepin’ settin’ up with my arms around a tree. I might have to talk ’em into lettin’ me sleep on the floor with my hands tied around the bed.”

  Will smiled in acknowledgment of Preacher’s attempt at humor and followed him back to the tree where the manacles were left on the ground. Preacher sat down behind the tree and thrust his wrists out on either side of it to be handcuffed. Still holding the Colt handgun in one hand, Will picked up the manacles in the other.

  Preacher watched passively while Will locked one of the cuffs on his left hand. When Will shifted the Colt to his other hand, Preacher suddenly seized the hand, trapping the pistol in it. Caught by surprise, even though he expected a desperate attempt by the outlaw, Will fought to keep Preacher from wrenching the weapon out of his hand.

  In a fight to save his life now, Preacher tried to pull Will over on his side to pin him to the ground. Equally desperate, Will fought to keep the larger man off of him and struggled to his feet. Both men were on their feet no
w, each with one hand free and the other locked in a desperate grip with his opponent’s, the Colt .44 trapped between them.

  After the initial struggle to control the pistol, and finding themselves stalemated, the two combatants started to slowly move in a deadly circle, looking for an opportunity to gain advantage. Only one had a weapon free now and that was the heavy iron manacle locked on Preacher’s wrist, the unlocked bracelet dangling on a short chain. Preacher grinned at Will as he moved his hand from left to right, causing the iron bracelet to swing back and forth. Will knew whatever else happened, if he released his grip on Preacher’s hand, he would lose the gun and his life with it.

  Suddenly Preacher struck, swinging the manacle like a mace, landing a blow on Will’s shoulder when Will ducked sideways to avoid it.

  “How’d that feel?” Preacher taunted. “I’m gonna beat you into the ground with it, Mr. Deputy Marshal.”

  They continued moving around in a circle as Preacher struck again and again, trying to land his iron mace where it would be a deciding blow. But Will managed to absorb the beating he was taking on his arm and shoulder until, finally, both men began to tire from the desperate strain. Along with it, Preacher became more and more frustrated. Being larger and heavier than the persistent lawman, he expected the battle to be over once he succeeded in fighting him hand to hand. And the longer Will was able to withstand the punishment he was receiving from the rain of blows from the manacle, the more frustrated Preacher became. Breathing hard, he realized how tired he was and decided to overpower Will in one desperate charge. So he roared like a lion and took a giant step in before Will understood his intention to bowl him over backward. Will responded with a knee thrust between the big man’s legs.

  The blow shocked Preacher to the extent that he involuntarily released his grip on the hand that trapped the pistol between them. Doubled over with the sudden pain, he tried to retaliate with a wild swing with the handcuff. The blind swing caught Will on his forehead, knocking him to the ground. Almost senseless, he lay helpless, unable to think. Still doubled over, Preacher realized that Will was totally vulnerable and he forced himself to finish him. Trying to clear his head, the injured deputy sensed he was about to die, but he couldn’t make himself resist. About to lose consciousness, he only remembered feeling the Colt in his hand and pulling the trigger, unaware of where it was aimed.

  Slowly, his senses returned to him, although he wasn’t quite sure if he was alive or dead. The only sensations that registered were a feeling of being smothered and pain like a bolt of lightning splitting his head. A few moments more and he realized what caused the feeling and he struggled to roll Preacher’s heavy body off him. He sat up beside the body, still holding the Colt in his hand, and stared at the startled face of the big outlaw, frozen in an expression of surprise, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Aware now of the pain in his own forehead, he reached up and wiped away some of the blood that had run down in his eyes from the cut. He looked again at the neat dark hole in Preacher’s forehead, scarcely able to believe he had shot him. For the only memory he had of those final moments was that of sliding helplessly into unconsciousness. It seemed impossible to him—someone or something had to have had a hand in it because the pistol must have aimed itself. He surely had no memory of aiming it. Ain’t for me to question, he thought, just be thankful for it.

  He struggled to his feet, becoming more aware of the many blows he had absorbed on his arms and shoulders. He remembered Preacher’s boast that he was going to beat him into the ground with his manacles. “He damn near did,” he muttered.

  Standing over the body, he couldn’t help berating himself for being careless, in spite of anticipating a desperate attempt from the boastful outlaw. To make matters worse, he was now faced with the loss of pay for the mileage traveled, for Preacher was not delivered alive for trial. On top of that, he would have the responsibility of paying for Preacher’s burial.

  He turned to face east, as if looking toward his destination. “And only fifteen miles to Fort Smith,” he lamented aloud. Looking back at the huge body, he commented, “You cost me a lot of money with that fool move.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Damn, Will, what the hell happened to you?” Ed Kittridge exclaimed upon seeing the deputy pull up in front of his shop, his shirt splotched with bloodstains and his new bandana tied around his forehead. “You look like you got into it with a grizzly.”

  “That pretty much describes it,” Will answered, and dismounted while Kittridge took a quick look at the body riding across the saddle of the coal-black roan gelding. “I woulda buried him myself, but I didn’t feel like diggin’ the grave. Besides, I don’t know if Dan Stone wants to see the body or not, but I’d like for him to verify my claim that this is the outlaw called Preacher McCoy. I’ll check with him before you bury him—like always, nothin’ fancy. I have to pay for it myself.”

  “What happened to your forehead? Looks like it’s been bleedin’ a lot,” Kittridge said.

  “Yeah, it has,” Will said. He reached up and pulled the bandana up so Kittridge could see. “The damn thing don’t wanna heal up.”

  “That’s a nasty-lookin’ cut, all right. You might better have Doc Peters take a look at it—probably need a few stitches. When did it happen?” He asked because the blood was dry except for a few rivulets seeping from his forehead.

  “Last night,” Will answered. “I reckon I didn’t do much of a job of cleanin’ it up. Come on, I’ll help you carry him in. He’s a heavy bastard. I wished I’d had some help loadin’ him on that horse this mornin’.”

  * * *

  After leaving the undertaker, Will took the horses to the stable where Vern Tuttle met him with the same questions he had just answered with Kittridge. Like Ed, Vern advised him to see Doc Peters to take care of the gash on his forehead. Will said that he would and he intended to, but he thought he’d best report in to Dan Stone before he did anything else. As usually happened, Vern was interested in what Will planned to do with the blue roan. He was obvious in his appraisal of the dark horse. “I’ll talk to you about it later,” Will said. It was a fine horse and one he might consider keeping to add to the small herd he was accumulating over in Ward’s Corner. He was also thinking about the cost of this second trip to Wichita. He might have to strike a deal with Vern to pay for it.

  * * *

  “Good Lord in heaven!” Dan Stone blurted when Will walked in. “I swear, for a while there, I wasn’t sure you’d make it back this time. Looks like you had a little trouble arresting Preacher McCoy.”

  “Yes, sir, I did,” Will answered matter-of-factly.

  “You take him to the jail?”

  “No, I was plannin’ to, but I took him to Ed Kittridge instead.” Stone didn’t answer, instead he struck a patient pose that conveyed a need for an explanation. Will continued. “I almost made it,” he said, “got within fifteen miles of here before he made his move to escape. I shot him, but I don’t remember doin’ it.”

  “Whaddaya mean, you don’t remember shooting him?” Stone responded, obviously in need of more explanation.

  “Well, I reckon when he was beatin’ the hell outta me with my hand irons, he got in one good lick that knocked me silly and I don’t remember anything after that till I came to with him lyin’ on top of me.” He went over the details leading up to the actual fight as best he could remember, right up to the final moment before getting struck on the forehead.

  “And you think you shot him while you were unconscious?” Stone asked, finding the story difficult to believe.

  “Unless he decided to commit suicide and shot himself,” Will replied, having no explanation for the incident ending the way it had. Stone still looked as if he doubted his young deputy’s account of the killing.

  “You’re sure the corpse lying over there at Ed Kittridge’s place is the man calling himself Preacher McCoy and Gaylord Pressley?” Stone asked. Will said there was no doubt in his mind about the identity, but he had in
structed Ed not to put Preacher in the ground until Stone okayed it. Stone nodded, then asked, “What about all that money he was supposed to be carrying? Were you able to recover any of it?”

  “’Fraid not,” Will replied. “He said he hid it and he didn’t say where, so I reckon that money’s gone forever.” He went on to explain the circumstances under which Preacher was captured and the reason there was no opportunity to search for the bank’s money. “He claimed those six outlaws he was sharin’ the cabin with didn’t know where he hid the money. He was the only one who knew where it was and he wasn’t tellin’ anybody. I figure he mighta been thinkin’ to buy himself a lighter sentence from the judge if he told him where they could recover it.”

  “Damn,” Stone muttered, thinking about it. “That’s a helluva lot of money to disappear. I wonder how much of it was left.”

  “Well, Elmo Black claimed Preacher got away with all of the twenty thousand, his share and Lon Jackson’s share, too, when he escaped from the cave up in the Arbuckles. And Preacher said he still had almost all of it left when I captured him, so I reckon the bank is the loser on this deal.”

  “I expect so,” Stone said. “We’ll notify the Texas Rangers that McCoy is dead and no money recovered. They held up on coming after Black and Jackson until they got word that we had arrested McCoy, so they could transport all three of them at the same time.” He got up from his desk and extended his hand. “Glad to have you back. I think you’d best stop by Doc Peters’s office now and have that cut taken care of. Then you can rest up a little. You look like you need it. I’ll send for you if I need anything else today or tomorrow.”

  Will took his leave, carrying a feeling that Stone might harbor some suspicions that he might know the whereabouts of that twenty thousand dollars. Ain’t nothing I can do about it, he thought as he headed up the street to the doctor’s office. His mind was working on more important things now and he was anxious to get finished with the doctor, so he could go home to Bennett House. There was a lot he wanted to talk about with Sophie.