The Vengeance Seeker 4

by Will C. Knott

  Wolf finished his drink. “Reno went through here. It won’t take me long to find someone who saw him. Fact is, he might still be here. You going to back my play?”

  “I told you. Reno’s gone.”

  “You know, I’m still marshal of Green River, even though I ain’t wearing my badge. When I come back through here with Reno, I’ll have to take you with me, Pete. Accessory after the fact and receiving stolen goods. Maybe you’d better make tracks.”

  “You mean not be here when you get back?” Barnum smiled easily. “If, that is, you make it back.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Well, this ain’t Green River, Wolf. You got no jurisdiction here. And this is my town.”

  Wolf was aware suddenly that the clink of chips behind him had subsided, that everyone in the place was listening to their conversation.

  “I don’t worry about jurisdiction, Pete. You know that never makes any difference to me. I’m sorry.”

  “No, Wolf,” Barnum said, withdrawing his six-gun almost casually and cocking the hammer as he swung around and leveled it at Wolf’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “Put that away, Pete.”

  “Can’t. Been waiting for you to get here. Got a place all picked out for you to rest up in during your stay—the Lawson jailhouse. You look like you need the rest, Wolf.”

  There was still a trace of whiskey left in Wolf’s shot glass. With his left hand he swept the whiskey into Barnum’s eyes while he jumped back and brought his right fist down on the six-gun in Barnum’s hand. The gun went off, but the bullet ricocheted off a brass spittoon, and the sheriff never did get off another shot as Wolf brought his fist down a second time and clubbed the six-gun out of Barnum’s hand.

  As the weapon clattered heavily to the floor, Wolf reached back for his own six-gun. But strong hands from behind grabbed his wrist. As he tried to pull free, a third person dropped a forearm over his head and clamped a viselike grip on his throat, exerting sudden cruel pressure on Wolf’s Adam’s apple. Forgetting about his sidearm, Wolf lunged backward and reached up with his free hand in an effort to pry loose the forearm.

  But even as he reached up, Barnum—his eyes watering from the whiskey—strode close and sledged a vicious blow to Wolf’s midsection. It felt as if the man’s fist had probed all the way to Wolf’s backbone. Letting out a strangled gasp, Wolf bucked forward, freeing his gun hand, then twisted to one side, causing Barnum’s next punch to glance off his elbow. He kept twisting and managed to pull free of the strangling forearm. But by this time, his back was to Barnum.

  Aware of his danger, he tried to duck quickly to one side. But he was not fast enough—and the ceiling crashed down upon the top of his head and sent him to his knees. Wolf crouched in black, blinding pain and tried to push himself to his feet. Then his legs gave way beneath him and he sprawled forward onto his stomach. A sick dizziness washed over him. The roaring in his head all but drowned out the conversation taking place above him.

  “Okay, Grubb,” Barnum said. “Take him under the arms. And watch out. He may still be trouble.”

  “You sure as hell hit him a mean one. You sure he ain’t got a split noggin?” the other asked as he gripped Wolf under the arms and began to lift.

  “Couldn’t do nothing else,” Barnum replied. “He’s a wildcat when he gets loose. I know from experience. We was waiting for him in here and we still almost lost him. Besides, he’s got too thick a head to crack that easy.”

  Barnum helped pull Wolf to his feet.

  “Come on, Wolf,” Barnum urged. “No sense in fighting us. You’re outnumbered.”

  Wolf nodded wearily and groped feebly for the bar to steady himself. He was lucky he still had all his senses, considering the beating his poor skull had just taken—and had taken earlier. He realized he had better not press his luck.

  As he left the saloon with Barnum and Grubb, he thought with wry disappointment of the bath he would now have to forgo.

  Ten

  Wolf awoke late the next morning to find almost blinding sunlight pouring in through the window over his head, his entire body bathed in perspiration. He sat up and looked away from the sunlight and swung his feet off the army cot the jail provided. There were only two other cells beside his, and they were both empty.

  At once Wolf became aware of how ripe he smelled and how hungry he was. It felt as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He got to his feet and grabbed hold of the bars and shook the door. It rattled weakly, causing barely enough commotion to stir the flies on the ceiling.

  He slumped back down onto his bunk. “Barnum!” he cried. “Get in here!”

  Wolf heard a chair’s legs scraping on the floor, footsteps, and a moment later Pete Barnum pulled open the door and entered the cell block.

  “What the hell time is it, Barnum?”

  Barnum looked down at Wolf. “Close to noon. You had yourself a nice long nap. Must be that tap I gave you.”

  Feeling gingerly at the top of his head, Wolf nodded. “I guess maybe that’s it, all right. How long you planning on keeping me in here, Pete?”

  “Long enough,” Barnum said, smiling. “While we was wrasslin’ with you in that saloon yesterday, Reno was on his horse riding out. I figure a couple of weeks should cool his trail some.”

  “What charge you holding me on?”

  Barnum shrugged. “How’s ‘disturbing the peace’ sound to you?”

  “And I suppose you’ve been paid well for this service.”

  “Every man’s got to look out for himself, Wolf.”

  Wolf nodded and licked his dry lips. “Just you remember that, Pete.”

  “I will, Wolf. I will.”

  “Now, how about getting some food in here?”

  Barnum smiled. “Sure thing, Wolf.”

  He turned and left, closing and locking the cell-block door behind him.

  The woman who brought Wolf his dinner not long after was vaguely familiar to him despite the cruel condition of her face, and as soon as she glanced full at Wolf, he knew who she was.

  Rose Compton.

  She looked as if she had been mauled by a grizzly. A deep raw welt ran from well back of her left cheekbone and down her cheek almost to the left corner of her mouth. The eye was swollen shut, the skin along the welt a swollen, discolored mass that clung to her cheek like an engorged leech.

  Barnum was close beside her. As she paused before his cell door, Barnum unholstered his Colt with one hand and unlocked the door with the other, then pulled it open. With a brisk nod to Rose, he indicated she should enter the cell with the tray. She did so, putting it down on the cot and then backing quickly out.

  There was a sudden commotion in Barnum’s office. Wolf heard loud, contentious voices. Pete cursed, hurriedly pulled shut the cell door, locked it and strode swiftly from the cell block.

  Wolf looked through the bars at Rose. “What happened?”

  She put her hand up to her face. “Reno,” she said softly. “He used his gun on me.”

  Wolf nodded. He saw it all in an instant. The welt had been caused by the barrel of Reno’s gun as it raked across the woman’s face. He had seen such wounds before.

  “I got no feeling in it,” Rose said in a frightened whisper. “I can feel it throbbing, but I touch it and it’s like it ain’t a part of my face at all.”

  “Where’s Reno heading, Rose?”

  “He’ll kill me if I tell you. He promised.”

  “He won’t kill you, Rose. I’ll get him and bring him back, and when I do I’ll take you back with me to your husband. He won’t need to know why you left with Reno.”

  She was startled. “You mean Frank’s alive?”

  “Yes. He was wounded, but I did what I could for him. When I left him he was on the mend.”

  “So he didn’t run off,” she said, surprised.

  She looked at Wolf to see if she could read a lie in his face, but the fear of Reno was still too much for her. “Even so,” she said. “I can’t tell you. I don�
��t dare. Reno’s a devil.”

  “Help me get Reno,” Wolf said quietly, “and I’ll help you get out of this place—unless you like working as a waitress for whoever it is you’re working for.”

  “Ma Jimson. I hate her. She’s a slob. Reno took everything with him. He didn’t leave me a cent. He didn’t even pay for our hotel room.”

  “What about that other fellow with him?”

  She laughed—a short, bitter laugh. “You mean Wes. He’s dead. And I helped kill him, God help me. So now Reno’s got it all.”

  “Well, suit yourself, Rose.”

  The sound of quarreling voices had subsided considerably by this time. Wolf peeled the dirty cloth off his tray and saw beans, a pot of chili and coffee. Barnum appeared in the doorway.

  “Let’s go, Rose,” he said. “I don’t think you should be talking to the prisoner.” He smiled. “Reno told me what you threatened. So you just better come along now—or I’ll have to finish what Reno started.”

  Rose moved quickly, fearfully out past the sheriff. Barnum glanced once at Wolf settling down before the tray and then pulled the door shut and locked it.

  For the next week, it was Ma Jimson who brought Wolf his meals. Sometimes Barnum and the stout woman stood about while Wolf ate, and from their banter Wolf learned that Rose was trying to make her way to financial independence by plying what for her was an old trade. The only problem seemed to be that the few men who would have her did not appear willing to pay for her services once they were rendered—at least not in the coin she demanded. There was talk of one gambler who had paid her by blacking her other eye.

  Wolf said nothing. He just listened—and waited.

  It was Saturday afternoon—late, and well past his usual supper time. But his meal had not been brought to him—by Ma Jimson or anyone else. Wolf thought he understood. The town had been riding high most of the day, taking up where it left off Friday night. The hard-packed street outside the jail resounded constantly to the clatter of hooves as riders descended on the town for a weekend of whoring and gambling and drinking. Barnum had not been in his office for more than five minutes at a stretch since early that morning.

  At last Wolf heard the cell-block door being opened. He looked up and saw a weary Pete Barnum showing Rose into the cell block. Enough light still came in through the single barred window over his cot to afford Wolf a good look at Rose’s face.

  The swelling had gone down and the purplish welt had faded almost completely away. But the expression on the left side of her face bore no relationship to the other side. It seemed to have frozen into a sagging mask. Reno’s blow to her face had apparently paralyzed the nerves on that side of her face.

  “Better late than never, Wolf,” Barnum said, pulling out his Colt as usual and unlocking the cell door. As Rose moved past him into Wolf’s cell, Barnum winked broadly at Wolf. “Looks like Rose is back with Ma to stay this time. Only Ma tells me her face scares away most of her customers.”

  Rose said nothing, but as she placed the tray down on Wolf’s cot, she glanced quickly at him—and in that instant Wolf caught a gleam in her eye that alerted him. Since he couldn’t be sure what was up, he moved back from the cot and waited for Rose to back out of the cell before approaching the tray.

  As Barnum swung the cell door shut, he looked through the bars at Wolf. “Hurry it up, Wolf. This town’s heatin’ up. You’re lucky to get a supper tonight.”

  Abruptly someone burst into the sheriff’s office. Wolf heard quick, angry footsteps approaching the cell block. Barnum swung around in time to meet a tall, red-faced individual who was obviously a very angry man.

  “Goddamn it, sheriff!” the man boomed. “I don’t mind watered whiskey, but that goddamned gambler you got in—”

  Barnum stopped the fellow in midsentence by pushing him back out through the open door and into his office. Wolf heard their two voices rising in sudden anger as the outside door opened and another fellow entered the office to take part in the dispute.

  Wolf looked over at Rose. “Well?”

  “Reno’s going to Cut Bank first—for supplies.”

  “And then?”

  “I’m not sure. Some place in Canada, I think.”

  “Canada’s a hell of a big stretch, Rose.”

  She glanced quickly over at the still open door, reached into the bosom of her dress and pulled out a small, pearl-handled derringer. “It was the gambler’s,” she told him. “The one Reno killed along with Wes.” She pushed it at him through the bars.

  Wolf took the tiny pistol and shoved it into his belt at the small of his back. “Is it loaded?”

  “Yes, I loaded it last night.”

  “Where is Reno going, Rose? Where in Canada?”

  She started to pull away, then looked back. “You promised you’d come back for me—help me to get out of this place!”

  Wolf nodded urgently. “That’ll take some time, less’n you can help me find Reno. He must have told you something.”

  “There’s a John Harrington in Cut Bank,” she said. “A big rancher. Reno’s going to buy some cattle from him. He should know where Reno’s place is.”

  She hurried for the door then, bumping into Barnum as she went. He grabbed her and held her in the doorway. “What’s Wolf up to?” he demanded. “Trying to get you to help him, is he?” She shook her head and spun out of his grasp and left the office. Barnum watched her go for a moment or two, then looked back at Wolf and moved down the narrow corridor to Wolf’s cell. He looked in at Wolf’s untouched tray.

  “Ain’t you hungry, Wolf?”

  “Sure, Pete. I’m almost used to Ma Jimson’s cooking.”

  Barnum leaned closer and peered through the bars at the tray. “I never took a look at what’s under that napkin,” Barnum said, taking out his Colt. He motioned with it. “Lift off that napkin, Wolf. And do it nice and slow so’s I can see what made Rose so damn skittish. I guess I just don’t trust that girl.”

  Wolf did as Barnum directed. They both saw the usual—chili and coffee. This time there was a wedge of apple pie, however.

  “Well, well,” said Barnum as he looked at the pie. “Looks like someone’s trying to soften you up.” He holstered his weapon and grinned in at Wolf. “But believe me, Wolf. Rose ain’t worth a tinker’s damn no more. Reno fixed her real good.”

  Wolf nodded and scratched his head, then dropped his right hand and reached behind him. Barnum was turning on his heels to walk back out to his office.

  “Pete.”

  Barnum caught the tension in Wolf’s voice and turned quickly. Wolf held the derringer out straight, sighting along its tiny finger of a barrel, its muzzle less than a foot from the huge man’s bewhiskered face. Barnum froze.

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “That damn woman!”

  “Unlock this cell door, Pete.”

  Barnum’s beard folded into a smile. “That little ol’ peashooter ain’t gonna put a dent in me, Wolf. You ought to know that.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no, Pete. But it sure as hell will sting some.”

  Barnum’s right hand dropped to the butt of his Colt. Wolf had enough time to drop his aim slightly and fire into the man’s massive chest. Barnum staggered but did not fall back, and his six-gun came up—slowly. Abruptly, it wavered as the tiny hole in his shirt grew a mite larger. Then Barnum’s hand opened and his heavy weapon thumped to the floor and skittered through under the bars of the adjoining cell. The big man plunged forward against the bars to Wolf’s cell, then slid down them to the floor.

  Cursing, Wolf reached through the bars and tried to pull the heavy body closer to reach the keys hanging from the man’s back pocket. At last he was able to hook the key ring with his middle finger and lift the keys out.

  But it was no easy task to shove Barnum’s massive frame back so the cell door could swing open. Wolf contented himself with squeezing through and hurrying out into the sheriff’s office. He was crossing to where Barnum had hung his gunbelt when the street door
opened and a tall fellow strode in.

  “Hey, there, mister, where’s ...”

  The man froze when he realized it was Wolf. Wolf recognized Grubb, the sometime deputy who had helped Barnum lead Wolf from the saloon.

  And all Wolf had in his hand was an empty derringer.

  As Grubb clawed for his six-gun, Wolf hurled the small pistol at the man’s head. The fellow ducked away and then Wolf picked up the lighted kerosene lamp off Barnum’s desk and threw it at him. The lamp crashed into the man’s chest, splattering flaming kerosene over his head and shoulders. With a sudden, awesome whump the deputy became a screaming torch.

  As the man whirled and bolted out the back door, Wolf reached down his gunbelt and Winchester, then ducked into the cell block, intending to leave the place through the window at the far end.

  Pete Barnum was on his feet, waiting for him.

  His vast bulk completely blocked Wolf’s passage—an awesome grizzly of a man still, even though mortally wounded. Wolf tried to duck back, but one of Barnum’s huge hands came down on Wolf’s shoulder and yanked him close. Barnum’s other hand caught Wolf around the waist. Convulsively, relentlessly the man hugged Wolf against him, intent on crushing the life out of him. Wolf felt his ribs protesting. The power of the man’s arms seemed inexorable. Wolf’s senses began to cloud.

  He decided against trying to pull away. He slammed his head forward against the man’s wounded chest. He felt Barnum gasp as Wolf’s head struck. Then with his last remaining ounce of strength, Wolf rammed his whole body forward. Barnum stumbled as he tried to keep on his feet, then he toppled backward and went down under Wolf. As his back slammed into the floor, his grip was broken. Wolf rolled off the man, got up and looked down at him.

  Barnum’s blue eyes were filled with pain, and his dark blue cotton shirt was growing still darker with a spreading stain. A small, but steady gout of Barnum’s lifeblood was flowing out of him with every gasping breath the dying man took.

  “You sonofabitch, Wolf,” Barnum cried out hoarsely. “I could have killed you to begin with.”