Bury Them Deep in War Smoke

by Michael D George

  ‘Wine?’ Fallen raised his eyebrows.

  The clerk nodded. ‘Yep, wine.’

  Heck screwed up his face and rested the barrel of his scattergun on the desk.

  ‘Was he armed?’ he asked.

  The clerk nodded nervously and pointed at the shotgun. ‘He didn’t have one of those. He did have a six-shooter, though.’

  ‘He had himself a hog-leg, Matthew,’ Heck repeated to Fallen.

  The clerk mopped his face with a handkerchief. ‘He had himself a real fancy six-shooter that looked like silver or something akin to it.’

  ‘That don’t fill me with courage, Matthew,’ Heck told his tall companion as he yawned. ‘In fact it kinda makes me feel damn troubled.’

  The clerk looked faint and sat back down. He loosened his collar and tried to stop his legs from shaking, but it was a pointless exercise.

  ‘There ain’t gonna be a lot of blood again, is there, Marshal?’ he croaked, watching as the two star-packing men moved towards the staircase. ‘The last time we had trouble at the Diamond Pin it took a week to get the blood off the walls.’

  Matt Fallen glanced back at the terrified desk clerk trembling on his stool.

  ‘Then stop painting the damn place white,’ he suggested. ‘You’re just asking for problems.’

  Both law officers started the long ascent up the newly laid stair carpet. The thick pile absorbed the sound of their heavy boots.

  ‘Where we headed?’ Heck asked clutching the shotgun to his chest beside the marshal. The older lawman was tired and visibly in need of sleep as they both studied the gas lights dotted around them.

  ‘Room three,’ Fallen growled as his hand slid his six-shooter out of its holster and his thumb pulled back on its hammer until it fully locked. ‘That’s the room that Jonas Ward is meant to be in, Heck.’

  They reached the ornately decorated landing and glanced down the quiet corridors which led off in three separate directions. All the gas wall lights had been dimmed, but Fallen’s keen eyes quickly spotted the room they were looking for. He pointed the barrel of his .45 and Heck nodded.

  The years of wearing a tin star had taught Matt Fallen the art of caution and surprise, and he intended to use both qualities to his advantage. The pair of lawmen moved stealthily along the corridor with their weapons aimed at the door with the number three painted upon its polished surface. Not a sound came from the hotel room, but the famed marshal was well aware that that meant nothing when it was a question of confronting a certain breed of man.

  This might be a trap, he deduced, and there was no way he was going to be caught out like old Sam had been. If Jonas Ward was the killer they sought, he would not catch Fallen in such a trap.

  The lawmen made their way halfway along the corridor until they reached the rooms that faced Front Street. Matt Fallen pressed a finger against his lips to signal his partner to remain silent. Then he gestured for Heck to move to one side of the room door while he remained at the other. The scruffy deputy clutched the hefty shotgun in readiness and watched as the muscular marshal raised his left boot.

  When his knee was touching his chest, Fallen steadied himself for a few moments. Summoning every ounce of his tremendous strength he forcefully kicked the brass door handle.

  The entire hotel resounded to the mighty kick as Fallen’s boot leather collided with the door. Its lock shattered into a thousand metal fragments as the door splintered inwards and fell from its frame. A cloud of sawdust hung in the lamplight as Fallen charged into the room with his six-gun drawn in readiness.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  No sooner had the last fragment of the door and its frame fallen to the floor than the determined lawman came to an abrupt halt beside the small table near the window. Ward’s holstered six-shooter lay near a glowing lamp. The crouching Fallen swung on his boots with his gun clutched in his hand in search of the stranger. A mere beat of his pounding heart later and he spotted the man in black resting upon the bed in the corner.

  Jonas Ward was smiling as he lay against his stacked pillows with an empty bottle in one hand and a full glass in the other. He downed the contents of the glass and then placed both vessels on the bed to either side of him.

  Fallen aimed his cocked .45 at Ward.

  ‘Don’t move or I’ll shoot, Ward,’ he warned.

  ‘I’m unarmed, Marshal,’ the man in black said as he held his hands high. ‘My six-shooter is over near the window.’

  Fallen could not help but be impressed by the sheer confidence in Ward. ‘You might have another weapon hidden in that long black coat you’re wearing. I ain’t the sort to take risks.’

  Ward smiled. ‘I’ve no hidden weapons, Marshal.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Fallen said as he slowly straightened up. ‘I was hoping to kill the man that just stabbed the town undertaker.’

  ‘It wasn’t me, Marshal,’ he said in a hushed tone.

  ‘I’ve only got your word for that,’ Matt Fallen surveyed the hotel room. He had expected to be greeted by a plague of bullets and not a mocking grin. The lamp bathed the entire room in its amber light and glistened off the empty wine bottles scattered across the floor. The lawman trained his .45 at the seemingly tired man. He was not in any mood to be friendly with a man he did not trust.

  ‘Get to your feet, Ward,’ Fallen snarled as Heck nervously followed him into the room. Ward slowly rolled over until his feet found the floorboards. He glanced at the tall marshal and smiled ominously at him.

  ‘I’m impressed that you managed to work out who I am, Marshal,’ he sighed before adding. ‘But I haven’t done a thing to warrant you kicking in my hotel room door.’

  ‘Search this hombre, Heck,’ Fallen instructed his deputy.

  Ward stood and swayed as he kept his hands held above his head. Heck had his shotgun under his arm and patted down the seemingly drunk stranger. When Heck was finished he stepped back and held his hefty double-barrelled weapon. He kept it aimed at Ward.

  ‘He ain’t got no weapons on him, Matthew,’ the deputy looked disappointed. ‘I looked real hard for a knife but he ain’t got one.’

  Fallen could feel his rage fermenting as he took a step towards the man in black and pushed him back on to the bed.

  ‘I know that you killed Sam Foster, Ward,’ the marshal said as he somehow managed to control his temper.

  ‘Who is Sam Foster?’ Ward asked as he stared through half-closed eyes. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone by that name.’

  ‘He was the undertaker, Ward,’ Fallen snarled. ‘You gutted an innocent old man who never harmed anyone in his whole life, and I’ll make sure you hang for that.’

  Ward sighed as he sat on the edge of the bed. He then looked up at the fuming lawman and his expression changed. The smile had been replaced by an icy glare.

  ‘Not me, Marshal,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve bin in this room ever since I registered. Why would I kill the undertaker? I’ve never even set foot in War Smoke before tonight and I sure ain’t ever met your friend, so what reason would I have to kill him?’

  ‘He’s lying, Matthew,’ Heck growled as his finger stroked the triggers of the scattergun. ‘That critter is as guilty as sin. He’s full of hogwash.’

  ‘I’m totally innocent, Marshal,’ Ward repeated his claim. ‘You’re confusing me with my brother.’

  The statement was a valid one. There did not seem to be any reason why the man in black would kill someone that he had never met before. Yet Fallen was positive that he was looking at the killer as he paced around the room. He kicked the empty bottles out of his path and came to a halt beside the bed. He looked down at the seated man.

  ‘You’ve never bin to War Smoke before?’ Fallen repeated the statement.

  Jonas Ward shrugged.

  ‘Nope, this is the first time, Marshal,’ Ward said as he leaned forward and stared at the floorboards. ‘Reckon I won’t be coming back here either.’

  ‘Why not?’ the marshal wondered.

&n
bsp; Ward sighed. ‘It’s hard to get a decent bottle of wine here. I’ll be glad to get back to civilization.’

  ‘You sure drunk enough of it though,’ Heck scratched his beard as he kept his twin-barrelled weapon aimed at Ward. ‘I ain’t ever seen so many empty bottles in one place before.’

  Matt Fallen tilted his head as he stared down at the man in his gun sights. He pointed at the array of bottles scattered between the bed and the small table.

  ‘Are you telling me that you drunk all this wine, Ward?’ he asked the yawning man. ‘Are you?’

  Ward nodded and frowned.

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you, Marshal.’

  Heck moved closer to the marshal. ‘That’s a heap of wine to drink on your lonesome, Matthew. Most folks would be unable to walk if they only drunk half that much.’

  Fallen narrowed his eyes and looked down upon the stranger in black. Was Jonas Ward actually drunk or was he just pretending?

  ‘Get up, Ward,’ he demanded.

  After what appeared to be some considerable effort, Ward managed to stand but then within seconds he fell back on to the bed.

  Heck moved closer to Fallen.

  ‘This hombre can’t be the fella that killed old Sam, Matthew,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Somehow we’ve taken the wrong trail. We’ve bin chasing the wrong fox.’

  Still unable to accept that he had made a mistake, Fallen grabbed Ward’s collar with his free hand and then pressed the cold barrel of his six-shooter into the man’s neck.

  ‘I’m gonna check to find out if you’ve sneaked out of this room tonight, Ward,’ he growled before releasing his grip. ‘If I find out you’ve bin lying to me, I’ll be back with my guns blazing. Savvy?’

  ‘I savvy, Marshal,’ Ward sighed before rubbing his throbbing temple.

  ‘How come you drunk so much wine, boy?’ Heck asked as he stared down the double barrels of his shotgun. ‘That seems like an awful lot of hooch for a man to drink on his lonesome.’

  Ward shrugged. ‘Maybe it is a lot but I was thirsty. You see, it was a long dry train ride here and once I’d put my horse in the livery I came straight here. The desk clerk sold me the wine and I drank every damn drop of it.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ Heck shook his head at Ward’s statement. ‘He didn’t come straight here, Matthew. I seen him up at Boot Hill.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right you did, Heck.’ Fallen nodded before looking back at the seated Ward. ‘You took a little ride up to the graveyard before you went to the livery and rented this room.’

  ‘I forgot. I did ride up to the graveyard,’ Ward admitted with a shrug. ‘I wanted to see where my brother was laid to rest. That’s not a crime is it?’

  Matt Fallen continued to stare at Ward. Every sinew in his body told him that he was being lied to and yet he could not prove it. Jonas Ward looked a lot like his dead brother but that was where the similarity ended. Lucas had been stupid. Jonas was smart and devious.

  ‘How come you was looking at them three fresh dug graves?’ Heck snorted at Ward. ‘That’s kinda fishy if’n you ask me.’

  Jonas Ward nodded.

  ‘I was wondering why there were three empty graves up there myself,’ he taunted the bearded deputy. ‘I agree that’s mighty strange.’

  Matt Fallen realized that his only suspect seemed to have an alibi. He indicated to his deputy and then nodded to the man seated on the edge of the bed. ‘We’re sorry to have disturbed you, Ward. Reckon we made a mistake.’

  Before Heck could continue arguing with the mysterious stranger, Fallen’s large hands had hustled him out of the room and back into the corridor. The tall lawman slid his gun back into its holster and rubbed his jaw.

  ‘That hombre is lying, Matthew,’ Heck said as Fallen led him back to the top of the staircase. ‘I can feel it in my bones. He’s our man. He killed Sam.’

  ‘I know he did,’ Fallen agreed as they started down to the foyer. ‘The thing is I’ve gotta be able to prove that he’s lying.’

  They strode across the foyer back to the desk and the still shaking clerk sat behind it. Fallen slammed both his hands on the desk and stared hard at the small man guarding the hotel register. The clerk got to his feet and forced a smile.

  ‘I heard the ruckus, Marshal,’ he said.

  The marshal ignored the statement and leaned over towards the nervous hotel employee.

  ‘Has that varmint in Room Three left the hotel during the last hour or so?’ he asked.

  The small clerk shook his head.

  ‘Nope,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you sure, sonny?’ Heck squinted at the clerk.

  ‘If he wanted to leave the Diamond Pin he’d have to pass through the foyer, Marshal,’ the clerk explained. ‘You’ve got to pass this way even if you use the rear door. There ain’t no other way out of here.’

  ‘Damn it,’ Fallen looked at his equally surprised deputy and then touched the brim of his hat to the clerk. ‘Thank you kindly, son.’

  They turned, and Fallen angrily led Heck towards the double doors. As he reached down and turned the brass handle he paused and looked back at the desk clerk.

  ‘You’d best get someone to head on up there to replace the door to Room Three,’ he said.

  ‘What happened to the door, Marshal?’ the small man asked.

  ‘It kinda tangled with my boot,’ Fallen answered, as he and his deputy left the hotel.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The man in black was no longer slurring his words. He stood and marched across the hotel room and pulled out his silver cigar case and opened its lid. He withdrew a fine Havana and carefully bit off its tail as he stared down at the lantern-lit street. After returning the case to his pocket he lit the cigar from the top of the table lamp’s glass funnel. He pulled the lace drape from the window and started to chuckle as he watched both the lawmen heading back towards the funeral parlour.

  They were perfect targets, but Ward had other plans. He reached up behind the curtain and pulled his blood-stained stiletto out of the wooden window frame. He was still chuckling as he slid the long knife down into the neck of his right boot.

  ‘This is just too damn easy,’ he laughed as smoke filtered between his teeth. ‘How these mindless critters managed to capture brother Lucas and hang him, I’ll never know.’

  Ward pulled the cigar from his lips and exhaled a line of grey smoke at the lace drape before resting his hip on the edge of the table.

  ‘Why would I kill the undertaker?’ he repeated the words which he had so skilfully spoken to Marshal Fallen and his underling. He rammed the cigar back into his mouth and filled his lungs with strong smoke.

  Ward then pulled out his billfold and extracted the fifty-dollar bank note that he had taken from Sam Foster after he had ripped his innards apart with his stiletto.

  The banknote had traces of blood on it and the puncture holes where it had been pinned to the letter he had sent to the undertaker.

  ‘Reckon Sam Foster won’t be needing this where he’s headed unless they’ve started charging entrance fees,’ he chuckled as he returned the bill to the billfold. He folded its leather and slid it into the inside pocket of his trail coat.

  He then reached down into his deep outer pocket and pulled out the handful of letters his brother had sent to him during his trial. Ward had memorized every word in them, but it was the top letter that he prioritized above all the others. He pulled it out of its envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper. His icy stare focused on the handwriting that Lucas had scrawled shortly before he was executed.

  It was the final ranting of a mentally ill man who had totally lost his sanity and was blaming everyone else for his ultimate downfall. The letter had ignited within Jonas a trait that both of the Ward brothers shared: it had ignited the same demented murderous fuse in Jonas that Lucas had succumbed to years before.

  Ward looked at the well-worn paper in his hand with avenging clarity. He stared through the cigar smoke at his brother’s words in the sam
e fashion that some folks would study their Bible. It was as though Lucas’s lunacy was infectious, and was infecting the normally rational Jonas. In fact his brother’s insanity had affected him far more than he realized, and the man who had never resorted to violence during his years of dare-devil robberies had now become as bad as his sibling.

  Three names had been scrawled on the paper by Lucas, the names of three individuals who were totally unaware they had been branded as being responsible for not only getting Lucas caught, but also found guilty.

  Jonas read out the final paragraph.

  ‘Sam Foster the undertaker and foreman of the jury steered the jury into finding me guilty,’ Ward read before casting his eyes on the two other names below it. ‘Miss Betty LaRue, the owner of the Crimson Heart brothel, who could have given me an alibi, and Marshal Matt Fallen who captured me. They all should die for what they did to me. Avenge me, Brother Jonas.’

  With the cigar firmly gripped in the corner of his mouth, Ward found a two-inch pencil and stared at the three names that he had already started to eliminate. He licked the end of the pencil and drew a line through Sam’s name, and then considered the other two names. Although Ward knew that Lucas had deserved to die for the atrocities he had perpetrated in countless towns before reaching War Smoke, the irrational bond that only kinship could muster had grown like a cancer inside his own mind.

  Ward ran his thumbnail below the female’s name.

  ‘Next it’s time for Miss LaRue to be punished for not giving Lucas an alibi,’ Ward said as clouds of smoke surrounded his head. ‘You don’t know it yet, dear lady, but the sand is draining out of your hourglass faster than spit.’

  Ward put the pencil back into his pocket and inhaled deeply on his Havana. He then carefully folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope and returned it with the others to his deep trail-coat pocket. He then picked up his long gunbelt and shook it loose, looped it around his hips and buckled it as he continued to watch Fallen and Heck enter the funeral parlour down the street. He reached down and tied the holster’s leather lace around his thigh and then gazed back at the amber-lit street.