Matthew, whose eyes were covered by a thick, black rubber mask shook his head and bellowed inarticulately.
The doctor hollered, “Nurse, quickly please!”
Matthew shouted out in rage and denial. The fog of the last two days was starting to lift. The abduction from the jail cell, being clocked in back of the head by one of his over-zealous captors, a long train ride… the drugs.
“You can’t do this to me!” he shouted.
To which the doctor, being five thousand dollars richer than he was two days earlier replied, “I’m afraid I can, sir. The papers are signed and the staff agrees that a lobotomy will do you a world of good. Just think, one little procedure and your desire to hurt other people will simply vanish! Ah, thank you, nurse. Just hold his arm down… there. Very good….”
Then Matthew felt a tiny pinprick, and knew no more.
Chapter 20
True Colors
Allen O’Donnell awoke with a crashing hangover and a grin. He stared at the ceiling for a moment and heard the sounds of busy commerce going on in the streets outside of his saloon. He licked his teeth and grimaced… his mouth tasted like the inside of a chamber pot. Turning his head, he saw the three girls who had accompanied him to his office late last night, sprawled like dead ducks all over the room. In the cold light of day, they looked old, worn out and used up.
Still, Allen acknowledged, he felt good—really good. He had finally stopped banging his head against the impenetrable walls of Billing’s high society. Thinking back on the way he acted when he first arrived in town, Allen shook his head in self-disgust. He had suspected, even then, that his vague dreams were never going to work out. Although he had more money than most of the wealthy citizens in this frontier town, he was still considered nothing more than trash, and was avoided like the plague by the very people whose friendship he had so desperately sought.
Well, he sneered. Not, anymore! The change in his attitude had occurred during the Wild West show, which had just recently left for Portland, Oregon. Buffalo Bill and his crew stayed far longer than anticipated because of a series of blizzards that had descended in January, covering the train tracks and making travel next to impossible. Since many of the audience members were just as stranded as the cast, the show had continued, unabated, into late February,
Allen’s business thrived during those long, winter months, even as other businesses in Billings suffered from the heavy snows. Night after night, the dance hall was filled to capacity. When his own, dancing girls grew weary, some of the more liberal entertainers in the Wild West show stepped in. There were plays and reenactments, sometimes, and impromptu shooting matches between Lillian Smith (who was a most-accomplished flirt) and local marksmen.
The place overflowed with fur-trappers and soldiers; lean and hungry farmers, merchants, and tame Indians from both the Crow nation and the Blackfoot reservation. Although Allen’s finest hooch disappeared rapidly, he had planned ahead and brought in enough rotgut whiskey, wine and kegs of beer to sink a ship, despite his accountant’s nervous squawking.
The Little Haymaker took a beating, though. Every night, as the boisterous patrons grew intoxicated every beautiful thing within the building became a target. Mirrors and chandeliers were considered fair game and the polished brass spittoons were used as privy pots. When they overflowed, the walls and hidden corners became the next, best choice, as no one wanted to go outside to freeze in the blowing snow and ice.
At first, ever mindful of his precarious status in town, Allen did what he could to fight the citizen’s assault on his fine establishment. By the fourth week however, he gave up in frustration. The doors opened every morning at nine and stayed open until 2:00 am. There simply was not enough time in the day to keep the filth at bay.
Now, the black and red flocked wallpaper sagged like ragged, filthy skirts, the pretty marbled mirrors were nothing more than shattered shards and the whole place stunk like an outhouse. Most of the walls were riddled with bullet-holes and half the windows were boarded up. The restaurant had closed its doors two months earlier due to a lack of fresh food and an over-abundance of rats, and the felt-topped poker tables were scorched with burn marks and sticky with spittle.
The general odor of his saloon was rift with more than actual dirt. A certain sharp malcontent had entered the double-doors over the last few months, as well. Every man in his employ was run ragged trying to keep the masses from throttling each other. Even life-long friends grew bored and murderous once the snows set in. Local farmers, who worked together in harmony every spring and summer, grew hot with banked coals of resentment and fury and set about to killing each other that winter.
The whores were acting out as well. Being cooped up together like a querulous brood of chickens caused fistfights and hair-pulling sessions on a daily basis, to the amusement of the bored bar patrons. A firm hand…the very firm hand of Allen’s head bouncer Josh, in fact, quelled the women’s wrath.
The young man seemed to thrive in the head-cracking business and he had no qualms, whatsoever, about using his fists to make a point. He only hit O’Donnell’s whores where the marks wouldn’t show—like the ribs or the cunny. Still, after he hit Madam Goldie so hard one morning, three of her ribs broke; she stole the rest of her girls out in the middle of the night and disappeared forever.
It was easy enough to replace the prostitutes, but the quality of the goods suffered, greatly. The women who replaced the missing whores were of the pig farm variety, but most of the customers didn’t seem to mind, or even notice. For one thing, they were cheaper and for another, they seemed willing to endure all manner of depravity, unlike Madam Goldie’s girls who held much higher standards of behavior.
Now, after only five months in business, Allen’s’ beloved saloon was a seedy, sad affair although he continued to make money—hand over fist. At first, during the establishment speedy decline, Allen attempted to stay above it all. He ensconced himself in his upstairs office, and issued orders from above, like God. He paid whole crews to come in and wash the place down every morning and he paid thousands of dollars on repairs.
He still sought acceptance from the town’s elite at that point. But, despite all his efforts, he was rejected at every turn. For the first time in his life, Allen O’Donnell, aka Earl Dickson, knew true despair.
He stopped going to his new home entirely, and put it on the open market. It sold with unrealistic (and unseemly) haste. Allen had no doubt that a consortium of rich men had somehow pooled their resources and bought the outlandishly expensive property with the sole purpose of denying him access to that stately and exclusive part of town. Allen didn’t mind losing the house, but those final snubs sent him into first… a two-week drinking spell, and second… total rejection of Billing’s high society.
If that’s the way they want it, he remembered thinking, that’s just what they’ll get!
From that moment on, Allen reverted into his old self. He let his hair grow out again, and shaved off the thick, ponderous mutton-chop whiskers he had so carefully groomed. He lost the pretentious monocle and stared out at the world through angry, blood-shot eyes. He stopped smearing pancake make-up on his scarred nose and didn’t care when his fine new clothes grew rank and soiled.
He also started hanging out with the downstairs boys again. Once he allowed himself to simply, be… he felt their acceptance wash over him like warm, healing waters. He took an active part in running the saloon and was hauled upstairs as drunk as a sailor almost every night. He lost a fortune in the gambling room and used his whores as he liked… savagely and often.
Lately, he had taken to doing something else with his spare time. He still felt the sting of rejection although he affected a self-satisfied smirk in public. Three times, he had asked to walk out with one of the eligible young women in town and all three times, he was rudely put in his place, even though he could have bought their papa’s properties four times over without blinking an eye.
Only one out of the three gir
ls even attempted to be courteous when she turned him away and for her kindness she, alone, was spared. The other two girls and their families suffered his wrath. Once Allen had chosen his latest target, he and his boys would don black hoods and exact vengeance upon the hapless victim. So far, he grinned with pride, he and his crew had beaten up on all of the girl’s fathers, and one of the girl’s mother, as well.
There was always enough time between the attacks to confuse the city police, and even under their hoods, the men’s faces were disguised. Sometimes they stole the victim’s valuables but just as often, their purses and wallets were left intact. In addition, Allen had instructed his men to never, ever utter a sound. That way, not only did the victim suffer fear and pain but the additional anxiety of not knowing whom or why they were being targeted.
Despite the officer’s best efforts to solve the chilling crimes, the attacks continued through the last few months of winter. More than one drunk had been hauled in for questioning but no one, yet, knew whom the perpetrators were.
Now, as Allen stood at his window looking down at a herd of longhorns wading through the muddy streets, he smiled in satisfaction. The devil was getting his due. Last night, as one of those rude, snobbish girls walked home alone from a jaunt through the city park, Allen and his men had surrounded her and forced her into an alley. Once there, they de-flowered her and then disfigured her pretty face so she would always be looked upon with scorn and horror.
They left her alive, barely, and now Allen couldn’t wait to hear news of the latest attack. He would make all the appropriate sounds of sympathy but, inside, he would be laughing with glee. So far, he and his boys had escaped detection, but he figured they should lay low for a while. Although he paid his cohorts handsomely, a couple of them couldn’t hold their liquor and had big mouths. He wondered if it might be better if he arranged for their early demise, as well.
Striding to the door, he stepped out onto the balcony. “Joey, send up some coffee, will ya?”
The young man, who didn’t seem nearly as glad to be working behind the bar as he once did, nodded and shouted, “It’ll be right up, sir!”
Allen stepped back inside his office. “Hey, bitches! Wake up, and get out of here… NOW!”
The three whores stirred and yawned, blearily. One of the girls turned over and burrowed into her pillow as if she thought to catch a few more winks. O’Donnell took four long strides and planted his bare foot into her ribcage.
“Aieee!” she yelped and scrambled to her feet, tears of pain leaking from her eyes.
The two other girls stopped and stared, and Allen screamed, “I said, get outta here before I put all three of ya in an early grave!”
The girls scampered out of the room and Allen sat down at his desk. Turning around to face the baleful morning light streaming in the window, he thought, Yeah, the boys and I will wait a little while and let the dust settle. But, I have plans for a bunch more of those snoots in town. There’s no way they get to disrespect Earl Dickson… I mean, Allen O’Donnell—not without consequences, anyway.
Chapter 21
A Close Call
Roy met Dicky on a crossroad about a mile away from the city limits of Walla Walla. Two days had passed since Roy rented a coach and traveled to Patty’s house. As expected, the sheriff had returned with Matthew’s witnesses—Patty Hanson and her two sons, Trevor and Lucas were behind him in the coach.
Dicky was pleased with his progress at the state prison. He had found out just who Earl Dickson was and, he knew now, that Earl was one of Patrick Donnelly’s henchmen from Seattle. He wanted to show Roy the sketch he had obtained… maybe the sheriff remembered him from that night in the graveyard so long ago.
Lincoln nickered when he saw Roy Smithers. Dicky had gotten Matthew’s horse out of hock yesterday, and the gelding had seemed genuinely happy to see him. When Dicky saddled the horse and drew the bridle up over his muzzle, Lincoln made a game of it by lipping the brim of his hat and tossing it, repeatedly, in the corner of the stall.
Roy smiled and said, “Dicky, I want you to meet Patty Hanson and her sons, Trevor and Lucas.”
Dicky tipped his slightly chewed hat, “Pleasure to meet you ma’am…boys.”
Patty smiled back. “Hello, Deputy. I am sorry about happened to Matthew. He is in no way guilty of murder. If anything, he saved me and my boys.” Tears sprang, unbidden, to her eyes. “He tried to save my little girl too but that scoundrel, Atkinson, took her away from me.”
Dicky dipped his head in sympathy. “I am very sorry for your loss, Ma’am. I also want to thank you for coming to our aid, despite your injury.”
The plump lady dashed a tear away and announced, “Oh, I’m fine. A little sore and I tire easily but I wasn’t about to sit at home and let Matthew stew in jail. I would bet my boots that Henrietta Atkinson is behind this whole thing. She’s as crazy as a bedbug, ya know.”
Roy smiled. “The good news is; Mrs. Hanson and her boys are happy to swear witness to Matthew’s innocence, and the sheriff from Victory, William Purcell, is coming in as well—later this afternoon. He will weigh in on what he thinks really happened, and is also willing to speak to Henrietta’s mental state.”
The sheriff winked. “And there’s more good news… Patty’s friend, Lawrence Talbot, is a travelling doctor. He apparently ran into Matthew and said that he cared for a man who almost had his face ripped off. The patient told the doctor a bear had attacked him, but Talbot thought it was either a dog… or a wolf bite.”
Dicky’s brown eyes blazed with fury. Handing his sketch over he said, “Do recognize this man, boss?”
Roy peered at the rendering and recalled the man who had stabbed him in the back with a knife, long ago in Potter’s Field in Seattle. Nodding, he answered, “Oh yeah, I do. This was one of Patrick Donnelly’s men.” Staring down at the name scrawled under the picture he added, “Guess, old Dickson carried a grudge.”
The sheriff pursed his lips, “The doctor also told me that this crittur might look a tad different now. Guess when the wolf…” he paused for a moment, remembering Bandit with grief.
He continued, “Guess when it attacked, he almost tore the man’s nose clean off…”
“Good for him,” Dicky breathed.
Roy nodded in agreement. “Yes, but the doctor patched him up. Said, there wasn’t much left of the cartilage, so his face might look very different from what we remember.” Grinning, he added, “He also said that Dickson and a young, simpleton named Josh were heading into Billings, Montana.”
“Now, Matthew has a good place to look for Iris’ murderer, and we have our witnesses to get him out of jail. Let’s head into town and visit with him for a while. I hope that we can get him out of lock-up by evening. I am sure he’ll be anxious to be on his way.”
They headed in to town and arrived at the jailhouse about an hour later. Patty was quite weary but she insisted on talking to the Walla Walla sheriff. She was offended and terribly frightened for the marshal. Her sons helped her down out of the coach and she said, “Who knows. Maybe we won’t even need Purcell to testify.” She muttered as she made her way slowly into the sheriff’s office/jailhouse.
McCrady wasn’t at his desk when they stepped inside. The only man there, besides an oldster who was feeding the prisoners in the back bell block, was Wynn Smith. Looking up, the deputy frowned and said, “What are you doing here?”
The words weren’t spoken rudely, but in genuine confusion. Roy felt a thrill of alarm and said, “We’re here with three witnesses to Marshal Wilcox’ innocence, just as promised.”
Smith scratched his head. “Why, he’s gone, sheriff… transferred out of here, last night.”
“What do you mean—transferred?” Sheriff Smithers barked.
Smith shuffled through some papers on his desk and said, “Says here that Matthew Wilcox was admitted to the Western Washington State Hospital for the Insane. He was committed by Henrietta Atkinson and the transfer papers were signed by my boss, S
heriff Bill McCrady.”
Patty Hanson sniffed and said, “What did I tell ya, Sheriff? That Henrietta is as crazy as they come. This is revenge, pure and simple!”
“The hell you s…s…say!” Dicky’s stutter showed itself as the news registered. No lawman was unfamiliar with his territories Bughouses. Asylums were often a far worse place for a criminal to land in than any jail. “Mr. Wilcox isn’t crazy!”
Wynn Smith carefully placed his hands on top of his desk. Not only had these two Spokane County officers provided witnesses to Mr. Wilcox’ innocence, they looked more than willing and perfectly capable of taking their displeasure out on him—right this instant.
In truth, although Marshal Wilcox had scared the tar out of him last week in the restaurant, he had proven a cooperative and courteous prisoner over the last few days. Once Sheriff Smithers and his deputy showed up, Wynn was more than ready to concede the fact that he and his boss were wrong in arresting a man who had, quite possibly, been set-up.
He had heard rumors about that crazy Atkinson woman. Wynn’s own sister had done some service work out at the Atkinson ranch about three years ago, and told him that old Henrietta was as loony as a woodpecker bird. Still, when his boss Bill McCrady, said that Wilcox was being committed, he had shrugged and taken the information at face value.
Now though, staring into Sheriff Smithers angry blue eyes, Wynn was having second thoughts. He hadn’t really put Henrietta and Marshal Wilcox’ fate together in his mind until now, and these two fierce-looking lawmen looked so shocked and horrified, he felt ashamed of himself for going along with McCrady’s plans.
“I’m sorry, but I just got here myself. I didn’t know about what happened to your friend until this morning and I couldn’t have done anything about it, anyway! That was Sheriff McCrady’s call.”
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