Diamond In The Rough (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 3)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  I have a business proposition I would like to discuss.

  – Amelia Gailwood, Room 109

  Kendrick scanned the words twice and then re-folded the paper without returning it to the envelope.

  “Anything wrong?” Sally wanted to know.

  Kendrick smiled at her again. “Only in the sense that something’s come up I fear is gonna delay my chance to misbehave with you—but only for a little while.”

  “That still makes it bad news,” Sally said, feigning a pout.

  “Just don’t get into too much mischief while I’m gone,” said Kendrick, rising to his feet and pocketing the note and envelope.

  Sally exaggerated her pout. “I’ll try … but I can’t make no promises.”

  Chapter Six

  Kendrick paused out front of Harrup’s and took a cigar from his shirt pocket. He lighted it, took two or three puffs to get it going good, then savored the aftertaste as he let a long plume drift out into the cooling night air.

  He was only an infrequent smoker, and never cigarettes. Out on the trail he rarely smoked at all. But during layovers in a town, usually after a meal and some drinks, that’s when he appreciated a good cigar.

  Puffing on the stogie now made him think again of Crandall, the private detective who’d died longing for a cigarette. Crandall, of course, had been associated with Amelia Gailwood and whatever her mysterious business was with the two Egyptians … And now, in Crandall’s absence, Miss Gailwood had sent for him to discuss “a business proposition.”

  Starting up the boardwalk toward the Silvertip Hotel, Kendrick pondered some more over what all of this might mean, how it tied together.

  The street was almost completely dark now, criss-crossed in numerous places by sharp-edged, oddly-angled patterns of deep shadow. A few businesses were still either open or had someone working inside with a light burning, providing occasional pools of illumination to offset the murkiness. Two blocks down, the hulk of the Silvertip was aglow with a score of lighted windows and numerous welcoming lanterns affixed to the columns of its wide front porch.

  The street was quiet, too. All but for the dull thrum of noise—heightened every few minutes by a raucous outburst—seeping over from the miners’ tent city off to the north and west.

  Kendrick was just about to cross the mouth of a narrow, dark alley—after passing through a weak shaft of light that spilled from the window of a print shop with somebody working in the back—when a rifle barked on the opposite side of the street. The bullet passed close enough to singe the hair on the back of his neck before smashing into the corner frame of the shop and spitting back a stinging spray of wood chips.

  Kendrick instantly pitched forward off the end of the boardwalk and went into a diving roll as he hit the hard-packed, sandy ground. He continued to roll, twisting and scrambling to make it deeper into the blackness of the alley, the cigar that flew from his mouth leaving a rooster tail of sparks as it sailed through the air.

  More shots cracked and roared behind him. Two rifles firing now. Bullets whined all around him, some slapping off the sides of the buildings bordering the alley, others chewing into the dirt behind his frantically digging heels.

  Kendrick bumped against a fat wooden rain barrel shoved up to the side of the print shop building. He dragged himself in behind it with one hand, got his Peacemaker unholstered with the other. Slugs continued to slam into the alley. One of them hit the empty rain barrel, making a hollow boom like a drum, and exited an inch above his head.

  Scrunching down lower on his belly, Kendrick leaned out cautiously and spotted the muzzle flash across the street from one of the guns firing at him. He wasted no time returning fire, but he’d gained the advantage of having the muzzle flash to aim at. He triggered three rounds just as fast as he could cock and fire and had the satisfaction of hearing someone cry out as if hit. But there was no time to savor this because he’d now revealed his position in the darkness by his own muzzle flash. The second shooter was quick to act on that, pouring in a fresh volley of lead. The wooden barrel boomed and shook crazily as bullets pounded into it.

  Kendrick pushed himself up, gathering his legs under him, and then shoved forward hard, away from the barrel, going into another double roll that took him to the opposite side of the alley. He found no cover there, but at least he’d distanced himself from the spot that was drawing such heavy fire. And he noted there was only one rifle firing now, giving a good indication that the cry he’d heard before meant he had indeed scored a hit on one of the shooters. What was more, the volley from the remaining rifleman now had his position revealed. Much like Kendrick, he was in the black maw of the same alley as it continued on the opposite side of the street.

  Raising his .44, Kendrick aimed at the flashes he’d seen there and emptied the Colt of its last three loads. After immediately squirming to a new position, he began reloading as fast as his nimble fingers could perform the well-practiced task.

  The shooting from across the street had let up also and, after a moment, Kendrick could hear somebody say in a harsh whisper: “Reese! … Reese, you there? … You okay?”

  As he shoved fresh shells into the Peacemaker’s cylinder, Kendrick couldn’t resist responding. “No, he ain’t okay, you dumb sonofabitch. I killed him … And now I’m aimin’ to do the same damn thing to you!”

  “Like hell you are!” the voice called back. But its uncertain tone carried far less bravado than the words.

  “You got the Hell part right,” Kendrick allowed. “Because that’s where I’m gonna send you—Right along with Eckert.”

  Excited, concerned voices could now be heard from up and down the street. Men from Harrup’s and probably the Silvertip Hotel, too, were undoubtedly poking their heads cautiously out to try and see what was going on. Kendrick could make out some of their talk.

  “What’s happening out there?”

  “What’s all the shooting about?”

  “Keep your head down, you damn fool—it may not be over yet.”

  The shooter across the street gave it one more try. “Reese! … Are you out there, dammit?”

  “No, but I am,” Kendrick bit out through clenched teeth. Meaning to draw another flash of return fire, he raised the reloaded Colt and sent a double blast scraping along either side of the opposite alley. Immediately shifting to a new position, he kept his eyes locked on the black maw across the way, hoping for the desired results.

  But the other man held his fire.

  And then, with the ring of his last shot still reverberating in the empty street, Kendrick heard the frantically pounding footfalls of somebody running away …

  Chapter Seven

  Sheriff Watson scowled down at the dead man’s features, illuminated by the lantern Deputy Luther was holding high. “So that’s Reese Eckert, eh?”

  “None other,” Kendrick confirmed.

  Watson grunted. “Not that I don’t trust you or anything, but it was thoughtful of you not to blow the face apart this time … Just in case I want to compare it against a Wanted poster or something.”

  “Compare it against anything you want,” Kendrick said with a shrug. “Pure luck I hit him at all, considerin’ I was just snappin’ off shots at his muzzle flash.”

  “Damned lucky, then, since you plopped two rounds only a whisker above his heart. Luckier still, him known to have a price on his head.”

  “So that makes it a three for one trade—me missin’ out on Jules Lester, the hombre I came here after, only to have these others land in my lap instead. I tell ya, I’m gettin’ fonder and fonder of your little town, Sheriff.”

  A fair-sized crowd had gathered on the street in front of where the dead man lay. Most of the gawkers had come pouring out of Harrup’s and the Silvertip right after the shooting stopped. At first, there’d only been Kendrick to hold them at bay, maintaining a kind of mob control while suggesting somebody go fetch the sheriff. A few of the men made noises about not liking to be ordered around by a stranger but when t
hey took a good look at the hard expression on his face and the way his hand hovered over his .44 when he spoke—almost like he was anxious to use the Peacemaker some more—they decided listening to him wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  When Watson and Luther arrived, the sheriff promptly appointed a couple of men from the crowd to continue holding the others off while he palavered with Kendrick. This time there wasn’t even a murmur of dissent.

  “How about the other fella?” Watson wanted to know. “You don’t figure you got lucky enough to score a hit on him too, eh?”

  “I told you, he ran away.”

  “I know. But what about before he took off?”

  Kendrick shook his head. “I don’t think so. Couple of the men went into the alley with torches, looking for signs of blood. They didn’t see any.”

  “But still nobody went after him?”

  “I advised against it, if you want the truth. The way he took off, it didn’t sound like he intended to be stoppin’ anytime soon. But that don’t mean he couldn’t have changed his mind and ducked into some shadowy spot, layin’ in wait for somebody to give chase. He’d be hopin’ it was me, naturally, but likely not too reluctant to take a shot at whoever showed up.”

  “Yeah. That was good thinkin’ on your part, I’ve gotta hand it to you. No sense lettin’ some beer brave idiot eager to play chase-the-bad-man invite himself to get shot.”

  “From the sound of it,” Kendrick said, “the shooter was headed straight for the miners’ tent city.”

  “That’d make sense,” the sheriff agreed. “Nobody knows nobody in there. He could lose himself without half tryin’.”

  “Maybe so. But come daybreak,” Kendrick said, “I intend to take me a stroll through there and do some pokin’ around, anyway. Damned if I’m gonna just sit back and wait for that bushwhacker to take another crack at me.”

  “You figure this here tonight was an attempt at revenge for you interferin’ with the stage attack and killin’ Lucas and the other hombre?”

  “Don’t know what else. Eckert and me tangled once before. He’d recognize me again, just like me him. He either got a close enough look out there on the trail, or he spotted me when I came in with the stage. From everything I know about him, he’s the type who wouldn’t sit easy leavin’ a score unsettled.”

  “But that don’t mean this fourth jasper is cut from the same cloth. He might figure havin’ three of his pards cut down by you is enough, and want nothing more to do with you. You’re most likely gonna find him long gone.”

  Kendrick shrugged. “Need to know that, then. Like I said, just waitin’ for him to make the next move don’t cut it for me.”

  “Don’t you reckon I oughta be the one to go askin’ questions in the tent city? After all, I’m the fella wearin’ the badge around here.”

  “Do as you like. I won’t get in your way, I hope you won’t try to get in mine.” Kendrick’s tone and the flat gaze from his eyes said he wasn’t looking to challenge the sheriff but neither was he willing to back down. “Been my experience that folks who hold back talkin’ to a man with a badge—and I expect it wouldn’t be hard to find that sort over there in the tents—are more apt to talk to somebody like me.”

  Watson made a sour face. “Must be your charming disposition.”

  “Not to mention dashing good looks and winning smile.”

  “What the hell,” the sheriff growled. “Go ahead and do your pokin’ around over there. Just do me a favor and promise not to kill too many more men in the process, okay? Leastways not right away in the morning … You ruined my supper, I’d like to be able to at least look forward to a peaceful, uninterrupted breakfast.”

  “I’ll do my best, Sheriff. Obliged.” Kendrick started to leave, then halted and looked back over his shoulder. “And the bounty on Reese?”

  “Same as with the others. I’ll contact whoever put out the Wanted on him, ask for payment authorization. Check with me tomorrow afternoon. Maybe I’ll have heard something back.”

  * * * * *

  After he’d sent Luther for the undertaker, Watson started breaking up the crowd that had gathered, telling them to get back to whatever they’d been doing before, there was nothing more to see here.

  Kendrick headed across the street. He could feel different sets of eyes following him. He couldn’t blame anybody, he guessed. He’d emerged from a shootout unscathed and left another man dead on the boardwalk. Naturally, people would be curious about a man involved in something like that—especially when that same man had arrived in their town only that morning, and with two other dead men already in tow.

  Before the shooting started, Kendrick’s intentions—once he’d paid his requested visit to Amelia Gailwood at the Silvertip—had been to return to Harrup’s and either sit in on the card game there or perhaps try his luck at finding out just how friendly that barmaid Sally was willing to be. Maybe both.

  He felt at loose ends now, however. All things considered, it was probably best to skip paying a call on Miss Gailwood any more tonight. And no telling what kind of reception he’d get if he sought to join the card game. Kendrick sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for a lot of fool questions like how did it feel to kill a man or what was it like leading the life of a bounty hunter. Which still left the possibility of a dalliance with creamy-bosomed Sally … only he wasn’t certain he was in a proper mood for even that.

  His dilemma was solved, after a fashion, when he looked across the street and saw Amelia Gailwood standing there, partly in the deep shadows of the same alley where he’d taken refuge when the shooters opened up on him.

  Chapter Eight

  “When I heard the buzz about a shooting out in the street,” Amelia was saying, “I somehow knew you would be involved.”

  Kendrick smiled ruefully. “I’d’ve sooner been left out of it. But I wasn’t exactly given the choice.”

  “It was the remaining two men from the stagecoach attack, I take it? The two who initially ran away?”

  “One of them for sure. The one who ended up dead. I can’t say for positive about the other because he got away again. But, yeah, I think it’s a safe bet he was the fourth one from the ambush.”

  “From what I overhead, the one you killed also had a price on his head. Is that correct?”

  “Is that why you sent for me?” Kendrick said, frowning. “So you could talk down to me some more about how I make my living?”

  The two of them were seated in Amelia’s room at the Silvertip—Kendrick in a cushiony, high-backed reading chair; Amelia on a wooden desk chair. Room service had delivered a tray of tea and sugared biscuits which rested on a folding stand between them.

  For the sake of appearances and the lady’s reputation, Kendrick had questioned how the two of them going up to her room at such a late hour might be perceived. But Amelia had promptly shushed him, saying, “Don’t be ridiculous. We are both adults and I have every right to invite a male caller to my room whenever I please.”

  In response now to the question of her purpose for wanting to meet with him at all, Amelia answered, “I wasn’t aware that I, at any point, had ever ‘talked down to you’ about anything.”

  “Maybe not in so many words,” Kendrick allowed. “But you sure let it be known pretty plain that you hardly approve of my line of work.”

  “If I conveyed that impression … well, it is regrettable.”

  In other words, she knew damn well she had, but was too stubborn to flat-out admit it.

  Kendrick drank some of the tea and waited.

  In the soft glow of lantern light that illuminated the room, he was struck by a deeper appreciation for Amelia Gailwood’s beauty than he had realized out on the trail. Her reddish blonde hair shone from recent brushing and her cobalt blue eyes appeared almost bright enough to have lighted the room all on their own. True, there was still the faintly pugged nose and the dusting of girlish freckles, but there was nothing girlish about the flowing curves that filled out her simple yet triml
y-fitted dress.

  “As a matter of fact,” Amelia continued, “your prowess with a gun and your willingness to face danger are the very characteristics that caused me to request this meeting.”

  Kendrick considered this. “It’s true enough I’ve developed some gun skills. And a fella can’t exactly be a shrinking violet to do the kind of work I do,” he said. “But I’m not a gun for hire, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “You just admitted you rely on your gun to do your work. I’m not sure I understand the difference.”

  “A hired gun,” Kendrick explained, “hires out to the highest bidder and takes on whatever his employer sets before him. The rightness or wrongness of whatever he’s told to do don’t figure into it, not as far as the gunman is concerned. To him it’s strictly about the money … For me, yeah, it’s about the money too. I don’t deny it. But the rightness or wrongness of the jobs I take on have already been decided by a judge or jury. The men I go after are fugitives, men on the run from crimes they’ve been legally convicted of.”

  “I meant no offense,” Amelia replied somewhat contritely when he was finished. “Now I understand.”

  “Didn’t mean to climb on my high horse there. But it’s best to have things straight between us.”

  “To be sure.” Amelia took a sip of her tea. “Technically, then, what I asked you here to consider falls in a sort of middle ground between what you normally do and what you’ve described as the way of a hired gun. Still, I’d like to go ahead and present it for you to consider. There would be payment for your services, of course. I must say up front, however, that while there are those involved who’ve certainly proven themselves dangerous and unscrupulous, I cannot provide anything like a prior legal conviction or a wanted poster in regard to them. On the other hand, neither would we be asking you to go up against them without any consideration to, as you put it, the rightness or wrongness of the situation.”