Vengeance Moon

by Charles G. West

  CORNERED MAN

  It would have been the easiest thing to simply put a bullet in Matt Slaughter’s back. P. D. would have preferred to do it that way, but Mathis had offered an extra two hundred and fifty dollars if Slaughter was brought back to stand trial.

  “Slaughter!” P. D. called out. “If you leave that rifle . . . and come out peaceful-like, we won’t kill you.”

  “Where’s Molly?”

  “I got her safe and sound, waitin’ for you.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Matt asked.

  “I’m the one come to take you back to Virginia. I always get who I go after. The only choice you have to make is whether you go back sittin’ in the saddle or belly-down across it.”

  “If you show me the girl, I’ll come out.”

  “Dammit, I told you she ain’t here,” P. D. replied heatedly. I shoulda just shot him in the leg while I had the chance. “I ain’t got all day. You come on outta there now, or I’m gonna hafta burn you out.”

  “I reckon you’re gonna have to come and get me.

  VENGEANCE

  MOON

  Charles G. West

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, January 2007

  Copyright © Charles G. West, 2007

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-66278-6

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Ronda

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  All he had was a name, P. D. Wildmoon, and a post office box where this person might be reached in Cheyenne, Dakota Territory. Jonathan Mathis was aware that the person he traveled to meet recognized no line between lawful and lawless activity. This fact did not overly concern him, for as a successful criminal attorney in Springfield, Missouri, he had dealt with any number of men of the most evil convictions. Two years of frustrating dealings with regional provost marshals in Virginia and the Dakota Territory had hammered home one cold, hard fact that Jonathan Mathis could not accept. As far as the army was concerned, Matthew Scott Slaughter was going to get away with the murder of Jonathan’s brother.

  The thought of his brother’s murder brought the bitter taste of bile to his throat. He had been duly proud of his younger brother’s successful rise to the rank of captain in the Union Army. His death had been hard to accept. Harvey had survived two years in the war only to lose his life after the fighting was over—murdered by a wild young Rebel over a land dispute. Especially galling was the army’s seeming disinterest after this man, Slaughter, fled to the West.

  To add to his frustration with the army’s incompetence, Mathis had learned that the fugitive had actually been in custody in the post hospital at Fort Laramie, and was allowed to escape. Nothing more had been seen or heard of Slaughter for over a year, but Mathis refused to abandon his quest for justice for the murder of his only brother.

  Riding now on the train as it pulled into the newly built station in Cheyenne, he took out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and stared again at the name at the bottom. P. D. Wildmoon it was signed, at the end of a short, childish scrawl that informed him that the sender of the letter would be in Shianne on the fifteenth of the month and could be reached at Cassidy’s Saloon. Mathis could only imagine the manner of man he was on his way to meet. He knew nothing about him other than the fact that Wildmoon was a name well-known in the murky shadows outside the law, in the dark world of bushwhackers and bounty hunters. The name had been given to him by a sympathetic lieutenant in the regional provost marshal’s office in Omaha, along with a word of caution. “Don’t say I gave you the name,” he had said. “There’s not much difference between Wildmoon and an outlaw. But if you’ve got any chance of finding Slaughter in that country out there, Wildmoon’s your best bet.”

  Mathis remained seated until the train rolled to a complete stop. He gazed out the window at the sprawling town created by the arrival of the Union Pacific Railroad. He was a day early for his appointment with P. D. Wildmoon and, from his first impression of the wild frontier town, he already regretted the necessity of having to stay there for two nights before being able to take a train back to civilization. Resigned to his self-imposed task, he pulled his suitcase from under the seat and stepped down onto the station platform.

  “Cassidy’s?” the operator in the telegraph office responded. He took a moment to eye the rather distinguished-looking gentleman asking for directions. Dressed in a business suit of obvious eastern fashion, he didn’t look the part of one of Cassidy’s patrons. Finally the telegrapher replied, “Cassidy’s Saloon is down at the far end of Front Street, next to the stables.” He felt compelled to warn the stranger, “None of my business, sir, but if you’re wanting a drink, there’s another saloon in Cheyenne that might suit you better. If you’re looking for a place to stay, Cassidy has a few rooms upstairs, but I’d recommend you try the hotel instead.”

  “I appreciate the information,” Mathis said. “Where is th
e hotel?”

  The operator walked outside with him and pointed out the Railroad Hotel. Mathis thanked him and departed the train station.

  * * *

  The following morning found Mathis taking his time over breakfast in the hotel dining room. There had been no time of day specified for his meeting with Wildmoon, but he felt pretty confident that it would be a waste of his time to look for him in the saloon this early in the morning. So the rest of the morning, until noon, was spent killing time, talking to the desk clerk, reading a legal brief he had brought to work on, and taking a short walk down the main street to locate Cassidy’s. After a noon meal at the hotel, he walked down to the saloon again.

  Though still early in the day, the saloon was already half filled with patrons. Mathis could see right away why the telegraph operator had seen fit to advise him against Cassidy’s. It was obviously a gathering place for the less genteel folk of Cheyenne. Mathis felt a slight shiver race down his spine as he stepped inside the door. Feeling as out of place as if he had entered hell’s waiting room, he walked straight to the bar under the gaze of a sea of curious eyes.

  “I’m looking for P. D. Wildmoon,” he said to the bartender.

  The bartender, a stubby-bearded man wearing a filthy apron, took a moment to study the stranger before answering in a bored tone. “That’s P. D. and the boys yonder,” he said, nodding toward a table in the back corner of the room.

  Mathis turned his head to follow the direction indicated. At the very back of the saloon, a group of four dusty individuals sat around a table. By the collection of empty beer mugs corralled in the center of the table, he reasoned that he could have come earlier after all. He thanked the bartender and walked to the table. Focusing his gaze on the obviously eldest member of the group, and the only one clean-shaven, he inquired, “Mr. Wildmoon?”

  All went quiet at the table. The person addressed looked up, fixing Mathis with a dull stare for a long moment before shifting her gaze to look him up and down. “Missus Wildmoon,” she then replied evenly. “You’d be Mr. Mathis?”

  Taken aback, he could not disguise his surprise. After the initial shock, he recovered briefly, only to feel a slight tinge of irritation in discovering that he might have traveled halfway across the country to find that P. D. Wildmoon was in fact a woman. Surely this was not the case. Taking a closer look, he could understand why he had taken her for a man, and a hard-looking one at that. Thinking that, surely, one of the other three must be the man he was there to meet, he answered, “I’m Mathis. Where is Mister Wildmoon?”

  His question brought grins to the faces of the three younger men. “There ain’t no Mr. Wildmoon,” the woman replied. “I’m P. D. Wildmoon, the one you come to see. These here is my boys: Arlo, Bo, and Wiley.” She nodded toward the young man seated on her left. “Wiley, pull up another chair so’s the gentleman can set down.”

  Mathis was perplexed at that moment, undecided as to whether he should bother wasting time with the woman and her sons, or just do an about-face and leave. He wondered if the lieutenant back in Omaha knew P. D. Wildmoon was a woman, and if he did, why he hadn’t told him so. He hesitated long enough for his decision to be made for him when Wiley dragged a chair from the next table and shoved it against the back of the lawyer’s knees, leaving him no choice but to sit. “Charley,” P. D. yelled, “bring the gent some beer.” Turning her attention back to Mathis then, she said, “Let’s talk business.”

  In his law practice, Jonathan Mathis had defended some despicable individuals, but he could not recall having confronted a more vile collection of degenerates than the three men grinning at him at this table. The one introduced as Arlo was a rough-edged brute of a man. His brothers, though not as imposing physically, appeared to be cut from the same rough stock. The younger one, Wiley, seemed to be permanently fixed with an openmouthed, vacant stare. Mathis would have taken him for a moron.

  Glancing around at the general clientele in the saloon, he began to worry that he had stumbled into a den of rattlesnakes. He also worried that to suddenly withdraw might cause him some discomfort. There was a slight distraction when the bartender set a mug of beer down before him, hard enough to cause a good portion of it to spill on the table. As one, the three sons looked in their mother’s direction expectantly. She dismissed their inquiry with a simple shake of her head. Obviously disappointed, they sat back to ponder their empty mugs.

  Resigning himself to the task, he finally voiced what was troubling him. “Uh, Mrs. Wildmoon,” he began.

  “P. D.,” she corrected.

  “P. D.,” he amended. She smiled patiently then and nodded, exposing a wide gap where her two front teeth had once been. He continued, “When I wrote you, I just naturally assumed I was contracting with a man—a bounty hunter, I was told. I’m not sure you understand the nature of the job I have in mind.”

  If she was offended, she did not show it. Rather, she nodded as if understanding his confusion, doubtless having faced the situation before. “I understand what you want,” she said. “You want a man tracked down. That’s what I do. I catch them what can’t be caught by your prissy soldiers and lawmen.” She nodded toward her three sons. “These boys is like a pack of hounds. I raised ’em that way. When we get on a scent, cold trail or no trail, we run ’em to ground, sure as bears shit and briars don’t. All I need to know is whether to catch ’em or kill ’em. If the money’s all the same, I’d just as soon kill ’em—less trouble. I guarantee proof of the job—anything you want, the head or any other parts.” She leaned back in her chair then, waiting for his response.

  He was too dumbfounded to reply at once, continuing to sit there staring at the committee of self-proclaimed scavengers, totally aghast when confronting such callous disregard for human life. His gaze darted from one villainous face to the next, settling upon that of the matriarch. Looking into the cruel eyes of the pudgy-faced woman with stray wisps of graving hair protruding from under a Montana Peak hat that framed deep ruts across a weathered forehead, he was struck with the realization that she was fully capable of doing everything she claimed. At that moment, he almost wished he had never undertaken his mission. But then he reminded himself of the shocking death of his only brother, shot down while performing his duty in a small Virginia town, and he made his decision. “How much are we talking about?”

  “Depends,” P. D. shot back. “Who we talkin’ about? And where do me and the boys have to go to get him?”

  Mathis laid out the history of events, as he had learned them, starting from young Matt Slaughter’s flight from Virginia. Then came his appearance at Fort Laramie, his time as a scout for the army before they learned he was a fugitive, and finally his escape from the authorities at Fort Laramie. “He’s supposed to have spent a good deal of time living in the Powder River country. The people I’ve talked to at Fort Laramie seem to think he could be anywhere between there and Virginia City.”

  “Powder River country,” P. D. repeated. “That’s pretty hot country right now. There’s a damn war goin’ on with the Sioux and Cheyenne. I expect that’s the main reason the army ain’t interested in findin’ your man. They ain’t got the time. There’s fightin’ all along the Bozeman Trail.”

  “Are you saying it’s too dangerous to go after Slaughter now?”

  “Oh, it’s dangerous all right. But it ain’t enough to stop me and my boys. I reckon we’ve kilt our share of Injuns. Bo, there, has a scalp string he’s right fond of.” The son named Bo, who was at that moment absentmindedly occupied with the excavation of his nose with a grimy forefinger, was distracted long enough to smile at Mathis. “No, we ain’t a’feared to track him in that country,” P. D. continued, raising one eyebrow as she summed it up. “It’ll just cost a little more, that’s all.”

  “How much?”

  “If this varmint is hidin’ out in the mountains,” she answered, continuing to justify her price, “we might be trackin’ him for three or four months.” She grimaced as if thinking hard. “We’r
e gonna need a lot of supplies.”

  “How much?” Mathis repeated.

  She shook her head, still concentrating, reluctant to throw the figure out, trying to judge what her client might bear. Finally, she responded, “Two thousand dollars.”

  “Fifteen hundred,” he countered.

  “Done,” she immediately responded. “Half now, and half when we get the job done.”

  “Five hundred now,” he shot back, realizing that he could have gotten her cheaper.

  She sat back again and shook her head in mock exasperation. “Damn, mister, I hope your under-drawers ain’t as tight as your purse strings.” She waited a second while her sons laughed at her comment. “All right, then, five hundred now.” She got back to business then. “Tell me ever’thin’ you can about this polecat.”

  Mathis shrugged. “I’ve told you pretty much all I know.” He remembered one more thing. “When he escaped from Fort Laramie, he was traveling with a woman and an old trapper.”

  P. D. cocked her head up at that. “Wait a minute! You didn’t say nothin’ about him havin’ two people with him.”

  Mathis was quick to counter any notions she might have for an added fee. “A young girl who can’t speak and an old man,” he insisted. “No need for concern.”

  She thought about that for a moment before dismissing it. Then her curiosity prompted her. “Whaddaya mean, a young girl who can’t speak?”

  Mathis shrugged then. “Can’t speak. She’s a mute. That’s what I was told. She shouldn’t be any worry for you.” He thought about it a moment before suggesting, “She might make it easier to find Slaughter.”

  “Might at that,” P. D. agreed, nodding her head. “All right, then, this feller Slaughter’s a dead man.” She extended her hand, and Mathis took it.

  He thought about the deal he had just made, and changed his mind. “I’d like to try Slaughter in a court of law, and then see him hang.” P. D. shrugged, frowning. Obviously it was not her preference. “I’ll pay you two hundred and fifty extra if you bring him in alive.”