A Dangerous Man

by William W. Johnstone

  The bed creaked as Longley sat on the edge of the mattress.

  The woman composed her slim hands on her lap and stared through the gloom at the gunman. Fat snowflakes rambled past the window. “I have a proposition. I very much hope you will take it.”

  “I can guess what it is and the answer is no,” Longley said. “It’s a dirty business and I got sick of it.”

  “You didn’t used to think that, Bill,” Clotilde said. “I mean, when you were happy to take my money.”

  “The British hung your husband for it. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  “Anglo-Saxon barbarians. Arthur should have been made a Knight of the Garter, not executed.”

  “The Chinese killed for the old man. Ain’t that right, Cheng?” Longley smirked.

  The Oriental’s eyes were on fire. “You did your own share of killing in Louisiana,” Cheng said. “And you made money.”

  “I killed only blacks and swamp Indians,” Longley pointed out righteously. “Their lives came cheap. Nobody cared about their loss.”

  “Professor Joran Van Dorn is in Santa Fe,” Clotilde said, changing the subject abruptly.

  Longley shook his head. “Never heard of him. Yet another of your fine doctor friends, Clotilde?”

  “He’s probably the most skilled surgeon in the country. His knowledge of the human anatomy is second to none.”

  “And you’ve been supplying him with cadavers,” Longley said, figuring it out.

  “Professor Van Dorn and others.” Clotilde’s smile was cold enough to freeze the air around her. “Santa Fe has recently become quite a center for Boston and New York medical men.”

  “Because of you and Cheng, huh? Comanche Crossing’s resident Resurrectionists.”

  “You choose to be flippant, Bill,” the woman said. “Please don’t continue in that vein. Flippancy doesn’t become you.”

  Longley thought he heard Cheng growl, but he could not be certain.

  “I would also like to remind you that I saved your life once,” Clotilde said. “Or Dr. Cheng did. He brought you back from the dead.”

  “I was only half-hung, remember? I was still alive when he cut me down.”

  “He brought you back from the dead, Bill. And please put that revolver down. It’s making Dr. Cheng nervous and I don’t want bad things to happen.”

  Longley laid the Dance on the bedside table, the walnut handle facing him.

  “What do you want from me, Clotilde? I never did find sleeping with you much of a pleasure, you know. A cold woman brings little comfort to a man.”

  “And you always smelled like the grave, Bill. We were quite a pairing, were we not? Death and the Ice Queen, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I’ll ask again, Clotilde, why are you here?” Longley was getting tired of the conversation.

  “Professor Van Dorn needs a body, a young woman of child-bearing age, the younger, the better. Such women are hard to find and their bodies are usually jealously guarded by their relatives until enough time passes for corruption to take place.”

  “There are no Resurrectionists in Boston?” Longley asked.

  “Some, no doubt. But the law cracks down hard on doctors and body snatchers in that benighted town.” Clotilde leaned forward in her chair, her face bladed by hard shadows. “This icy weather helps keep cadavers in reasonable condition, but Professor Van Dorn wants the girl’s body to be as fresh as possible. As soon as I have her, she’ll be transported to Santa Fe by carriage.”

  “That’s a stupid arrangement,” Longley said. “Yeah, sure, put her in a carriage, but alive, then kill her in Santa Fe.”

  “As ruthless as ever, Bill. It’s one of your traits I’ve always admired,” Clotilde said.

  Longley’s brain ticked over. “How much?”

  “Five hundred dollars for an unmarked cadaver.”

  “That ain’t much. Black, Indian, Mexican . . . make any difference?”

  “No. The female anatomy is the same, no matter the race. But being pretty helps. The medical students like that.” Clotilde smiled again, narrow, pinched, humorless. “Can you do it, Bill? You’ve worked for a lot less than five hundred in the past.”

  “I wasn’t famous then. But give me a moment. I’m studying on it.”

  “I don’t want to know the details,” Clotilde said. “But your idea of taking the girl to Santa Fe and ending her existence there is an excellent one.”

  “If I take the job, how much time do I have?” Longley asked, considering it.

  “Professor Van Dorn, two other doctors, and several students are booked into the Excelsior Hotel near the San Miguel Mission. They will remain for a week. The hotel staff has already been bribed and they’ll turn a blind eye. You understand?” Clotilde raised a pale, warning hand that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. “You will not be questioned as to the origin of the body, but it’s best you do not volunteer any information. Just be sure you kill the girl before you drive into town.”

  “I’ve done this before, Clotilde.” Longley stared hard at the woman. “What’s in this for you?”

  “I’m advancing medical science. What does the life of one girl matter, or two or ten, or how many you care to mention, when the study of her body may help ensure mankind’s future? No sacrifice is too much to advance the knowledge of medical science.” She turned to Cheng who’d been intently listening. “Is that not so, Dr. Cheng?”

  “It is indeed, my lady. The needs of the many must take precedence over the sacrifice of a nameless few. One day, they will make you a saint, Lady Wainright.”

  “Hardly a saint, but perhaps a baroness. Well, Bill, will you take part in this endeavor?”

  “Yeah, but on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “I plan to rob the Comanche Crossing bank and everything else I can grab in this town. If I skip across the border into Louisiana until the heat dies down, I’d like to use your place on the Sabine.”

  “Why of course you can,” Clotilde said. “I have an old caretaker living there, a Mrs. Guthrie. She keeps her mouth shut.”

  “Yeah, I remember her,” Longley said. “She’ll be no trouble.”

  Clotilde rose to her feet. “Then it’s settled.”

  “Not quite. I want to take the girl to your place after I grab her.”

  Looking troubled, Clotilde said, “Is there no other way?”

  “Hell, I can’t stash her in my hotel room.”

  After she thought about that the woman nodded. “Very well. She won’t be in my house for long. As soon as you’ve acquired the subject, you will head south for Las Vegas, then swing west to Santa Fe. That’s the route my medical guests take. It’s a two day journey, but Dr. Cheng will give you something to keep the girl sedated.”

  “Two days? More like three and that’s if the snow lets up. You ain’t giving me much time, Clotilde,” Longley said.

  “No, I’m not, am I? If you can’t handle it, we can postpone the affair to another time. The three physicians will have wasted a trip, that’s all.”

  “I can do it. Me and Booker will have to push our plans ahead, that’s all.”

  “Then do what you have to do, Bill. But get it done.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Questions Without Answers

  Buck Bowman took the opportunity to bend the doctor’s ear about his recurring lower back problems as Tam Sullivan left the house and made his way to the boardwalk. The clock in the church bell tower struck midnight, but its hands claimed twelve-fifteen. Over the years, no one had been able to fix the clock though many had tried.

  Despite his gloves, Sullivan’s hands chilled in the cold wind and he shoved them deep into his pockets. He stepped along the walk, head bent against the oncoming snow, looking forward to his bed and a good night’s sleep. Ahead of him, he saw two figures cross the street from the hotel. One of them, a woman, had hiked up her skirts to clear the churned up mud, the other was a small compact man wearing a heavy black coat.

 
Sullivan stepped into a storefront and stood in shadow, watching.

  The woman’s cape billowed in the wind as a huge dog appeared from an alley and trotted beside her. She patted the dog’s anvil of a head as she and her male companion hurried on.

  Sullivan recognized Clotilde Wainright by her tall, elegant form and fluent walk. The man with her was the Chinese man she called Cheng. What were they doing at this time of night and in a snowstorm?

  There was only one answer—visiting Bill Longley.

  Rubbing his chin with a gloved hand, Sullivan tried to fathom the why of the thing, but he had no answer.

  Unless . . . Longley and Lady Wainright were somehow involved in the body snatching business. And was Cheng, no doubt trained in the use of a sword, responsible for the death of the undertaker and the terrible injuries to Ebenezer Posey?

  It was a stretch, Sullivan knew.

  Then he remembered the mud-stained carriages that often stood outside Clotilde’s front door. Who were the passengers and where did they come from? Their purpose seemed to be much more than mere social calls to a beautiful woman.

  Stepping out of the doorway, Sullivan was determined to find answers to the questions he’d asked himself. The savage attack on Posey had made things personal.

  And Sullivan suddenly felt mad as hell. From past experience he knew that his anger was not a good omen . . . for somebody.

  When he reached the hotel, he climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing, he drew his gun. Still not wearing spurs because of the mud, he walked on cat feet in the direction of Bill Longley’s door.

  A murmur of voices from within stopped him in his tracks.

  He recognized Booker Tate’s rough whisper and Longley’s high-pitched, giggling laugh. Apparently, something about Clotilde Wainright’s visit had amused him.

  It had been Sullivan’s intention to burst the door open, catch Longley in bed, and ask him at gunpoint what he knew about the missing bodies and the attack on Posey. It was not much of a plan to begin with, and probably a good way to get himself killed, but slamming open the door and wading into the fast guns of Longley and Tate while they were both wide-awake would be pushing his luck a tad too far.

  Unwilling to trust the creaking floor any further, Sullivan backed off, walked down the stairs, and entered his own room. He turned the key in the lock and holstered his Colt. Bone tired, he unbuckled his gun belt and threw himself on the bed.

  All he could do was wait and see what the morning would bring.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  A Conspiracy of Evil

  A restless man, Bill Longley had grown tired of Comanche Crossing. The experience had not been what he’d expected and he had not taken over the town in any significant way. The presence of Tam Sullivan, a man of reputation and good with a gun, had derailed him. And tough Buck Bowman, a former Texas Ranger, also stood in his way.

  “That’s why we’re taking Clotilde Wainright’s offer,” Longley told Tate as they huddled in a secluded corner of the restaurant, drinking coffee.

  “What about the girl?” Tate asked.

  “The wedding’s off.” Longley smiled. “She’s worth more to us dead than alive.”

  “I meant, when do we grab her?”

  “Tonight. We’ll take her to Clotilde’s house and rob the bank early tomorrow morning.” Longley grinned. “Then we’ll head for Santa Fe, kill Miss High-and-Mighty Lisa York, and ride for the Louisiana border after the job is done.”

  “Bill, I can still get a taste, huh?” Tate begged. “I’m right partial to that little gal.”

  “Sure you can, Booker. She’ll be on the trail with us two, three days. Time enough for both of us to enjoy her.”

  “Bill, she’ll have to be ready to go after we take the bank,” Tate said.

  “I’ll arrange that with Clotilde today. We’ll need a mount for the girl and a packhorse with some kind of shelter and supplies for three days. The rubes might chase after us, but when I threaten to scatter pretty Miss Lisa’s brains, they’ll keep their distance.”

  Tate’s thinking was slow, but he spotted a flaw. “It’s thin, Bill, mighty thin. When the rubes see us pick up the girl at Lady Wainright’s place, they’ll burn her house down.”

  “That’s her problem, not mine,” Longley said.

  Tate shook his head, worried. “I don’t like it, Bill. There’s too much can go wrong. Your plan is tight, like a hangman’s noose.”

  Longley was irritated at Tate’s reference to hanging, a sore spot with him, but there was some logic in what the man said. “We got five days to get the girl to Santa Fe. Of course it’s close. It has to be.”

  “Then forget the girl,” Tate said. “We’ll have the money from the bank so we don’t need the lousy five hunnerd.”

  Longley glanced out the window. The snow had stopped. “I owe Clotilde a favor. I must repay it. It’s a reckoning.”

  “Hell, Bill, she cut you down because you were supplying her with dead Mexicans and blacks.

  Back then, she was making a fortune jamming stiffs in packing cases and shipping them off on the Southern Pacific Railroad.”

  “Clotilde didn’t make a pile of money, Booker,” Longley said. “She was trying to save the world. She still is.”

  “Hell, the world ain’t worth saving,” Tate said.

  Longley smiled. “You got that right.” He was silent for a while, thinking.

  Breakfasters came and went. He didn’t notice them. Finally, he said, “All right, here’s what we do.” He leaned closer to Tate. “We grab Lisa York tonight and take her to Clotilde’s place where we pick up the packhorse and another mount. You understand me, Booker?”

  “Yup, I got it so far, Bill.”

  “Then we take her out of town and stash her someplace with the horses. Tomorrow morning after we clean out the bank, we can pick her up on the trail. The girl will be drugged, so she’ll give us no trouble.”

  “She could freeze to death out there,” Booker said.

  “So? All the doctors want is her body. If she freezes, she’ll be that much fresher.”

  Tate’s laugh was so loud heads turned his direction. “Damn it, Bill, but you’re a smart one,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The plan ain’t too tight anymore.”

  “And it’s payback time,” Longley said. “John York and his wife made us unwelcome in their home and subjected us to the greatest humiliation.” He grinned. “Just wait until their precious little daughter disappears.”

  After Bill Longley returned to the hotel, he sat at the table in his room and composed a note. Reading it over a few times, he was satisfied it was the bait he needed to catch Lisa York.

  Dear Miss York,

  Your father’s life is in the greatest danger. Meet me tonight at seven o’clock outside the footwear store at the end of the boardwalk and I will tell you what I know. Show this note to no one and come alone. My life is also imperiled.

  —CMW

  The initials meant nothing of course, but Longley thought them a nice touch. He stuck the note in an envelope, sealed it shut, and addressed it to Miss York.

  He left the room and went down to the boardwalk. Half-grown boys were always hanging around the rod and gun store across the street and he spoke to a gangly towhead who looked fairly intelligent. “Boy, do you know Miss Lisa York?

  “I’ll say I do. She’s a real pretty lady.” The youth was spotted all over with freckles, like a bird’s egg.

  Longley produced the letter and held up a silver dollar. “Deliver this letter into Miss York’s hand and I’ll give you this.”

  “You’re Wild Bill Longley, ain’t you?” the boy said.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “They say you’ve killed fifty men.”

  The other boys gathered around, their eyes big.

  “People say a lot of things,” Longley said. “Now, will you deliver this note like I asked you?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Longley,” the boy said. “I’ll tel
l her it’s from you.”

  “No, don’t tell her that,” Longley said hurriedly. “I’m planning a birthday party for Miss York and if she knows I sent her the note, it will spoil the surprise.”

  One of the other boys frowned. He was a small creature with the face of a ferret. “Here, what’s the deal? Miss York’s birthday party was a month ago. I know because my ma was invited.”

  Longley badly wanted to put a bullet into the little creep, but he smiled. “It’s a late birthday party. That’s why it’s a big surprise.”

  “I wish I could have two birthdays a year,” the ferret said.

  Longley smiled and nodded. If it were up to me you’d never have another one.

  “I’ll deliver the note, Mr. Longley,” the towhead said, grabbing the envelope and the dollar.

  “Remember, when Miss York asks who gave it to you, just say a man you don’t know. Got that?”

  “Sure do, Mr. Longley.”

  “Then get going.”

  Longley watched the boy hurry along the boardwalk, then made his way back to the hotel. Tate was concerned about weak links. Trusting the boy to keep his mouth shut was yet another, but Longley figured he had no other choice since he couldn’t very well hand the note to the girl personally.

  Well, if it didn’t pan out, he’d need to take more drastic measures, was all.

  He stood on the porch and studied the sky. Black and iron gray clouds building from there to the mountains threatened cold and sleet and the death of the sun.

  It seemed that little Miss York would spend an uncomfortable night out in the wilderness where the hunting wolves howled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Book of the Dead

  “A feller asked me to give you this, Miss York. Happy birthday!” The boy turned and ran from the door.

  “Wait!” Lisa York cried.

  But the youth had already vanished.

  “Who is it, Lisa?” Polly York called from the parlor.

  “It was the McLean boy delivering a letter.”

  “We’re not expecting mail delivery,” Polly said.