“Well, the marshal has come and gone, Sir.” Roy said. “He headed out a couple of weeks ago to Billings, Montana, on account of the information you gave him.” Roy stared into Talbot’s eyes. “I hope that info was not an exaggeration?”
Talbot looked offended. “No sir, it was not!” he exclaimed. “I did work on a man’s ripped up face and heard their names dropped a time or two. I feel that those are the men your marshal seeks, and I won’t deny that I’m still as pissed as heck at those two skunks!”
He glared. “You know, I worked hard on that fella with the torn-off nose and used up a lot of my medicinals… it just ain’t right to knock your own doctor over the head and skedaddle after he just saved your danged life!”
The doctor sat back in his chair with a sigh. “I had planned on talking to Mr. Wilcox first… just to thank him, you know. But, after that, I planned to head over to Billings myself, now that I have some ready cash. Thought I might open a new practice in that city and if I find those two men in town, I planned to put a bug or two in the local sheriff’s ear about them.”
Roy said, “Well, it’s a free country, Doctor. Now that the snows have melted off, I think you could travel by train to Billings… probably get there in less than a week.”
Talbot grinned. “Yes, I reckon so. Maybe I will catch up to the marshal and the two of us will get the drop on those two rascals, together!”
Dicky doubted that Matthew needed the doctor’s help, but maybe Talbot could point Dickson out to the sheriff. There were so many men in the graveyard the night Iris was almost buried alive, and it was so long ago, neither Matthew nor Roy could remember each, and every one of those men’s faces. Unfortunately, the sketch that came with Earl Dickson’s biography was so vague it could have been… anyone.
Roy nodded, now, in agreement. “Well, if you do catch up with Matthew, be sure to give him our regards and tell him for me, if he needs help don’t hesitate to either call or send a telegraph.”
The doctor stood up, put on his derby hat and shook their hands in farewell. Then, he walked down the boardwalk toward the train station.
~
Allen O’Donnell rolled off his bed with a muffled screech. He was grasping at his face and could feel blood and sweat dripping through his fingers. “Oh no!” he gasped. It was that goddamned nightmare again, the same horrible dream he had experienced time and time again since the Wild West show had come to Billings.
About two months ago, right before the show left town, Allen had gone with Josh to see what all the fuss was about. It was boring for the most part… although he had to admit the shooting was spectacular. He had never been a great shot, and had to give the devil his due when he saw William Cody, Annie Oakley and the other sharpshooters the tarnation out of whatever was put in front of them.
He was just standing up to leave when a wolf flew right at him out of the shadows. He let out a startled yelp, and drew his pistol to shoot the beast, when Josh grabbed his arm and whispered in his ear, “It’s just a costume, Mr. O’Donnell… just a kid in a costume!”
Shaking like a leaf, O’Donnell put his pistol back in his holster and saw that a number of wild-looking creatures were cavorting around the arena. Wolves, horses, bears… even kids dressed up as turkeys and eagles skipped here and there and threw hard candies into the crowd. The tame Injuns were setting up a tepee in the middle of the arena, as well, getting ready to perform their part of the act. Allen could hear Buffalo Bill’s voice announcing a short intermission over his loud speaker.
His evening was ruined, though, and O’Donnell walked to the saloon, leaving Josh behind to enjoy the rest of the show. Later, after he made his way to his office and went to bed, he had the first of the many nightmares that would plague him the rest of his days.
It was always the same dream—that damned wolf he had filled with holes coming after him again, and again…all long white teeth, and raging golden eyes. The first time the dream came upon him, Allen had actually pissed in his bed—he was so scared. Lately, though, the dream had changed.
As always, the wolf tore into his face and, as always, Allen knew that the animal had eaten all of him—his eyes, his mouth, his nose and ears…all gone. Now though, as if that wasn’t bad enough, once the animal had eaten its fill, it stared down into his missing eyes and grinned. Then it grew tall and wide, looming over his prone and bleeding body.
Allen lay under the horrible beast and howled with fear as the wolf turned into a man. What was worse, the man seemed familiar. It was that goddamn marshal, Matthew Wilcox, who stared down at him with triumphant eyes and a small smile on his handsome face.
Chapter 25
Getting Better
Matthew stood on a flatcar, along with a number of other passengers and watched as the train made its way slowly into Billings, Montana. It was beautiful country and a beautiful day to view it. Vast mountain ranges surrounded the Clark’s Fork Bottom—the Bighorns, Black Tooth and Cloud Peak summits still boasted snowy white caps, even now toward the last days of May.
Green valleys, filled with wildflowers, oats and prairie grass stretched as far as the eye could see on either side of the tracks. Matthew saw large herds of cattle mingling with smaller herds of buffalo. The Buffs stood two-hands taller than their domestic cousins, and shied away from the approaching train.
Matthew held onto Trickster’s leash and murmured, “Steady there, son” as the big dog quivered with excitement, sniffing eagerly at a herd of mountain goats, which skittered back and forth in front of the train. The sun’s golden rays shone off the lead rams curling horns and Matthew felt a sense of awe at the beauty of the land in which he found himself.
Patting his dog on the head, Matthew observed his fellow passengers, as well. Most of them didn’t like his pet one bit. He had elected to bring Trickster along this time, as the dog had taken to running off in search of him when he left. Knowing that the animal was safe by his side gave him comfort but traveling with such a large, wolf-like creature was not without its challenges.
When he first boarded the train, Matthew thought to tie Trickster up close to the other animals, but the horses and mules would not tolerate the dog’s presence, no more than the cattle or sheep on the adjacent car. So, he put Trickster on a leash and watched as the people on board reacted with barely concealed fear to the wolf-like animal. Never mind that Trickster regarded everyone with friendly eyes, those same golden orbs inspired fear in most folk, rather than affection.
The good news… although he was getting better, both physically and mentally, Matthew was in no mood for company. One thing about a long train ride… people liked to huddle together and visit. They were bored and, sometimes, afraid of where they were heading, so they herded up like sheep.
But, Matthew was on a mission. If he had his druthers, he would have stayed home and sewn together the tattered threads of his family, but he had to find the outlaws who had ruined his life. He was in no mood for being overly friendly with a bunch of strangers and Trickster guaranteed his privacy (even though the dog would have loved to play with some of the children who ran up and down the aisles of the train).
When the big animal rose to his full height and woofed at the mountain goats, the passengers on the flatcar gasped with alarm and moved as far away from him as possible. Some of them muttered angrily about wild men who traveled with wild wolves and Matthew grinned, patting the dog on the head. Looking to his right, he saw the actual town of Billings/Coulson in the distance.
Even from here, he could see how big of a town Billings was. Spokane was about the same size, Matthew thought, but not quite so spread out… or populated. If nothing else, animals were plentiful. One stockyard after another filled to overflowing with cattle and sheep, squatted on the outskirts of town. The high reek of ammonia and manure almost brought tears to his eyes.
Trickster wasn’t helping matters any… the train passed so close to the pens, a man could reach out and pat a beef on the rump if he wished. Not wishing to c
ause a stampede, Matthew took his dog into the passenger car and sat down to wait while the train slowed and finally stopped at the station. As the passengers gathered their belongings and filed out the door, Matthew stared through the dusty window, and wondered where the elusive Earl Dickson might be in this sprawling city.
He saw that a number of structures were being built… mostly taverns, businesses and hotels. He saw a few that looked to be open for business; The Headquarters Hotel, The International and the Park Hotel, for starters. There was, apparently, another very nice hotel further up the road called The Grand, but Matthew didn’t like to spend money needlessly. Besides, he doubted a fancy place like that would approve of a dog inhabiting its hallowed halls.
Once the passengers had all left, Matthew picked up his traveling case and walked back to the freight cars. He paid the attendant for the hay and water that Lincoln had used up on the long trip over from Spokane, Washington. Then, greeting his horse with affection, Matthew saddled it up and slowly rode the length of 26th street, Trickster walking alongside.
It was a spectacle of commerce. All manner of businesses were on display; from prospecting offices, to solicitors, to milliner shops, to dancing schools. There was a whole city block, sporting only one business… Yegen Brothers Mercantile. Matthew marveled at the new, red brick and the real, glass windows.
Further down the street, the more upscale, conservative businesses gave way to different commerce… taverns and social clubs, bawdy halls and assorted restaurants rubbed shoulders and faced-off against each other across the street. Even as Matthew walked his horse down the middle of the road, the bat-winged doors on two of the taverns swung open and unruly customers were heaved, unceremoniously, outside onto the hard-packed dirt… almost under Lincoln’s hooves.
Matthew continued down 26th street and saw on his right, a large structure with the words, OPERA HOUSE painted on the side. On his left, there was a giant, warehouse-sized building. At first, he thought it was a warehouse, until he got to the corner and saw a bullet-hole stippled sign that read, The Little Haymaker Saloon and Restaurant. The word Restaurant had been crudely painted over, leaving no doubt that dining was no longer a part of the business.
Matthew paused for a moment and realized that he was tired. To his consternation, his protracted illness had left him in a weakened condition. Although he was getting better, day by day, Matthew acknowledged it was time to stable his horse and find a hotel that would accept Trickster as a guest. Turning Lincoln around, he started back the way he came but then a large group of men burst through the double doors of the saloon.
They carried a squalling, leather-clad figure by its arms and legs and proceeded to throw the body out into the middle of the road, narrowly missing the wheels of a swiftly moving buggy. Then, as Matthew watched, one of the men ran up to the unfortunate person and started kicking him as hard as he could in the ribs and head.
Matthew knew he had no jurisdiction in this town as a marshal, but he didn’t like what he was seeing. He got down off his horse and as he walked up to the scene, he heard a decidedly, feminine voice screeching, “Gawd damn you! Stop kickin’ me… OW!!!”
It’s a woman! Matthew realized with a shock. Galvanized, and all weariness forgotten, Matthew ran the last few steps and pulled his revolver to shoot a warning bullet in the air. Just before he could discharge his weapon, though, another set of hands seized ahold of the young man who was kicking the woman like a mule.
“Goddamn yer hide! I told you once, already, I don’t truck with woman-kickin!” A wild-looking middle-aged man had seized the younger fellow by the throat and was commencing to squeeze the life out of him right on the street.
Although Matthew couldn’t help but sympathize with the attacker, he couldn’t very well allow a murder to take place right in front of his own eyes, either. Sighing in exasperation, Matthew shouted, “STOP, in the name of the law!”
“Johnson!” Matthew heard some of the men say as he aimed at the attacker’s back. “Come on, Johnson—that Marshal is fixin’ to shoot you!”
Matthew had actually planned on wading into the fray and knocking the man named Johnson over the noggin with his pistol, rather than shooting him, outright. Still, the men’s muttered words seemed to knock some of the mad out of him. Letting loose of the young kicker, Johnson turned around and said, “Marshal… which one? There ain’t one lawman in this town that’s worth my spit!”
His eyes landed on Matthew and he grinned. “Well, hot-damn! We got us a new marshal, it seems.” He stepped forward and held out his hand to shake. “The name’s Johnson… some folks around these parts call me Liver-Eating Johnson on account of the fact that I once took a bite out of an uppity Injun’s liver.” He paused and studied the look on Matthew’s face.
“’Twas only a nibble though, and it served to keep me alive from the Crow and Blackfoot Indians who were seeking to kill me. My reputation as a thoroughly uncivilized man is highly exaggerated.”
Matthew grinned, and introduced himself. He liked this rough-looking man, despite the fact that he had no doubt Johnson would have finished the younger man off, had he not intervened. They shook hands and watched as the young tough and his buddies scampered back into the saloon. Hearing a groan of pain, he looked down and saw a most disreputable-looking woman wallowing in the dirt.
Her long, dark hair hung in greasy shanks around a thin face. She wore a filthy flop-hat and frightfully dirty buckskins. She reeked of whiskey and urine and she was spitting blood from a split lip. She, in turn, was staring up at him through dazed, rapidly swelling eyes. “Tha’s okay, Jim. I had those cock-suckers!” she mumbled.
“Yeah, Martha, I know you did,” Johnson replied, gently.
Matthew bent down and helped the woman to her feet. She stood, swaying woozily and whispered, “Bill, is that… is that you?”
Matthew cut his eyes toward Johnson in confusion, and the man clucked his tongue. “Now Martha Jane, you know that Wild Bill is long dead and buried. This here is Marshal Matthew Wilcox out of Washington State.”
Martha Jane Cannary stared up into Matthew’s face and tears, suddenly, sprang from her eyes. She still missed Wild Bill something fierce, although he had been dead and buried going on a decade now. Still, in her muddled state, the man standing in front of her now, with his upright bearing and his gentle voice reminded her of the man she had once adored above all others.
He was also so strong and handsome, the womanly part of her felt horribly ashamed. She had been on a weeklong bender, and she knew she looked a fright and probably stunk to high-heaven. Pulling together the only thing she had left, her dignity, Calamity Jane wiped the blood and snot from her face, bowed slightly and uttered, “Well, now that the two of you spoiled my fun, I’ll be on my way.”
She hiccupped, adding, “Bye now, boys… don’t let the door slam you in the ass on the way out!”
Then she staggered down the street and turned left into an alley, as the two men watched.
~
Allen O’Donnell took a quick step behind the window curtains with a stifled gasp as the man below him on the street mounted his horse and rode away. He had been watching the ruckus from his office window and was enjoying the spectacle immensely, when he spied an all, too familiar face. At first, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
It had been years, after all, almost nine years, since he first clapped eyes on Matthew Wilcox who, at that time, was giving his testimony in the Seattle courtroom. The man hadn’t changed one whit. He was still tall and slender. His hair was still thick and long… Allen snorted. A regular Goldilocks was the erstwhile marshal!
Thing is, Allen thought, what in the hell is he doing here! He swallowed in panic. There is no way that the marshal could have followed me here… is there?
Thinking back on his uneasy travels from Walla Walla to Wenatchee, to Granville, back to Yakima and on into Montana, Allen was sure he had gotten rid of all of his witnesses! Still… Gritting his teeth in frustrated rage, his
neck prickled with alarm. Whether the marshal was after him or not, Wilcox was here—now, in Allen’s home town!
Making a quick decision, O’Donnell strode to the office door. Calling down to Joey Landraith, he ordered hot water brought up for a bath and a fresh set of razors. He had let himself go, and now it was time to rejuvenate his image and get back on the straight and narrow. He could no longer afford to be his old self… Earl Dickson. It was time for Allen O’Donnell, with his mutton-chop whiskers, shaved head and high, white collars to make an appearance.
It was also time to sober up and gather his resources. He still had enough men to gather a rather formidable army against Wilcox if necessary and if not… if the marshal was only passing through town on his way to somewhere else, Allen thought it might be high time to move on anyway.
California had a nice ring to it. He actually had enough dough now to hire a crew to pan for gold and silver, while he acted the part of a gentleman prospector in San Francisco.
Meanwhile, he would need to set spies on Wilcox. If the man was searching for him… well, he was in for a rude awakening! O’Donnell pulled his employee ledger forward and started checking to see who he could part with to keep an eye out on the marshal, and who were his best gun hands. Realizing that his two best guns were out on the trail, his eyes blurred.
He suddenly recalled the horrible nightmare he’d had the other night and couldn’t help but wonder if he had his mother’s “sight”. She had gone on and on for years about how she could dream the future, and Allen had always thought she was a loony-bird. Now, though, he was beginning to wonder…
As two men brought the bathtub into his office and filled it full of water, Allen bustled about barking orders. He didn’t realize that his face was as pale as a sheet, he was quaking like an Aspen leaf and his voice was almost hysterical with panic. It did, however, give the men something to talk about later that afternoon.
Deadman's Revenge (The Deadman Series Book 3) Page 18
