Ralph Compton The Convict Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Vito shook his head. “Marshal Kane, you surely have a gentle way with prisoners.”

  Kane nodded. “Sometimes a man has to be cruel to be kind.”

  “I wonder what you’d be like if you were concentrating only on the cruel part.”

  Kane grinned, pushing Dawson through the hotel door. “Vito, you don’t want to ever find out.”

  He pushed Dawson into a chair and when the cook appeared he said, “Feed him.” Kane turned to Vito. “See that he gets his grub and coffee. I’m going to talk to that Katie gal at the livery.”

  “You have something on your mind?”

  “Yeah. It’s on my mind that this little man didn’t murder Lily LaBelle.”

  Chapter 27

  Katie Gordon was standing at the stable door, looking out at the rain when Kane stepped beside her.

  “Well, if it ain’t the man who put the crawl on Hulin Green and lived to talk about it,” she said.

  “I didn’t talk about it,” Kane said.

  “Maybe not, but the whole town is.” The woman’s eyes searched Kane’s face. “Is it right what I’m hearing, that you challenged Hulin to draw and he backed off?”

  “No, it’s not right. I asked Mr. Green for a key and he gave it to me. That’s all there was to it.”

  “Uh-huh . . . Well, that’s not how the story was told to me.”

  “Well, half-truths have a habit of growing up to be whole lies.”

  Katie knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere with the taciturn lawman. She said, “What can I do for you, Marshal? It ain’t much of a day for riding.”

  “I don’t need my horse. I just want you to answer a question for me.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What kind of gal was Lily LaBelle? Physically I mean.”

  “She was a slut and she had a big pair of bobbers if that’s what you’re driving at.”

  “Was she large all over?”

  “Sure, she was a big girl, well shaped and as tall as me”—the woman smiled—“but not near as pretty.”

  Kane played the gentleman. “That goes without sayin’, Miss Katie.”

  Pleased, the woman said, “Why are you asking me this?”

  “First, one more thing. Would you say Lily was strong?”

  Katie laughed. “I seen her beat up on a drunk miner a time or two over to the Bucket of Blood. And about a month before she died, she shot a saddle tramp who was passing through and tried to get for nothing what she had for sale. Lily shot about five balls from a .31 pepperbox into his hide and damned near killed him.”

  “She had a pepperbox?”

  “Sure, a six-shot Allen and Thurber. She carried it in her purse and sometimes in a garter.”

  “Was the gun found after she was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Hulin Green took it.” Katie looked hard at Kane. “I’m trying to catch your drift here, Marshal. What trail are you following?”

  “I took Frank Dawson out of the jail earlier. He’s this tall”—Kane made a gesture with the flat of his hand level with his waist—“and he can’t go a hunnerd pounds. How could he have strangled a woman who was strong enough to beat up on miners and carried a belly gun in her purse?”

  Katie’s eyes lifted to Kane briefly, then moved to the rain slanting across the stable door. Finally she said, “I don’t know.”

  “Frank Dawson didn’t murder Lily LaBelle. Somebody else did, somebody a lot bigger and stronger than him.” Kane listened into the hissing silence for a few moments, then said, “Why was Hulin Green in such an all-fired hurry to pin the murder on Dawson an’ so set on hangin’ him tomorrow?”

  Katie thought about that. Kane studied her, thinking that she wasn’t a beautiful woman, not even a pretty one, but she had sky blue eyes that could grow on a man and the blond hair escaping from under her hat had a sheen that was all its own. Her small breasts pushed against her buckskin shirt, budding in the cold air.

  “Hulin was sparking Lily, everybody knew that, and they had screaming fights all the time,” the woman said. “But I never knew him to get physical with her.”

  “Until the day he snapped and strangled her, huh?” Kane said.

  “Why would Hulin kill her?” Katie said. “She was his meal ticket. He took a cut of every dollar she earned.”

  “Maybe he found out that she was holding out on him.”

  “Lily became real close with Hank Stafford, the man who owns the Tontine and the Alamo saloon.” Katie shrugged. “Hulin is a dangerous man when he’s drinking. He could have got jealous.”

  The woman took off her hat and her hair cascaded over her shoulders. She rubbed her temples, then shoved her hair under the hat again. “Marshal, you’re giving me a headache.” She sighed her resignation. “What are you planning to do? Arrest Hulin Green and take him to Fort Smith? If that’s what you have in mind, forget it. It isn’t going to happen.”

  “I think Green murdered Lily LaBelle. But thinkin’ a thing isn’t proving it. So far I’ve got nothing on him.”

  Exasperation flickered in Katie’s eyes. “Marshal, all you’re going to do is dig a grave for yourself. Does a little weasel like Frank Dawson matter that much? Step away from it and let events take their course.”

  Kane shook his head. “I won’t see an innocent man hang just because it’s convenient. And if Dawson doesn’t matter much, then Lily didn’t matter much either.” His raw-boned face tightened and his voice grew a little louder. “Where does it end, Katie? One day will someone decide that you don’t matter? What will happen to you then?”

  The woman looked out at the rain. Without turning she said, “Marshal Kane, I’ve listened to you talk and I’ve seen the struggle in your eyes as you yourself try to believe in what you’re saying. I have the feeling that you’re a man attempting to change his ways, desperately trying to be what he is not. I think, for whatever reason, you’ve come to this recently.” Now Katie turned and her level gaze met his. “Instead of the hired gunfighter, you’re all at once the upright, noble lawman. This is all very honorable, but it’s not a plan for survival.”

  Kane opened his mouth to speak, but the woman held up a hand. “Hear me out. When I scouted for the Army, I met Judge Parker at an officers’ ball in Fort Smith. He told me he had to keep the peace in seventy-five thousand square miles of the Indian Territory with fewer than two hundred deputies. For that, the old man said he didn’t need knights errant in shining armor—he needed gunfighters, men who had killed and would not hesitate to kill again if the need arose. Why do you think so many of Parker’s deputies have ridden owlhoot trails?” She waved a hand. “Kane, you ride out into the Territory still wearing that halo around your head, the outlaws will use it for target practice.” She touched her hat. “Well, I’ve got work to do, but here’s some advice: go back to what you were when Judge Parker hired you, or get the hell out of the peace officer business.”

  Katie turned on her heel and walked into the barn. “I still won’t let an innocent man hang!” Kane yelled after her, his anger flaring.

  The woman waved a dismissive hand and was then swallowed by the gloom.

  The marshal felt like a little boy who had just been scolded by his ma and had pitched a temper tantrum. It was not a good feeling. And to make matters worse, she could have been in the right.

  Kane returned to the hotel and stepped into the restaurant. Frank Dawson still sat at the table, wrapped in his blanket, and the cook and Vito stood looking at him as if he were some kind of strange species that had wandered in from the high plains.

  Vito glanced at Kane and grinned. “He’s eaten three elk steaks, a dozen eggs and drunk a gallon of coffee.”

  The cook shook his head in wonderment. “I fed hungry Texas punchers for nigh on twenty years, but I ain’t never seen the like. He’s skinny as a bed slat, but the little feller’ll eat anything that don’t eat him first.”

  Still angry from his encounter with Katie, Kane did not crack a smile. “Vito, take him to the store and
see if you can buy him a shirt, pants and shoes. And see if they got some kind of coat he can wear. I ain’t takin’ him to Fort Smith nekkid.”

  “I’d be happy to oblige, Marshal,” Vito said, “but I think we’re in trouble.” He was standing at the window and he nodded to the outside. “Take a look.”

  Kane was at the window in two quick strides. He looked outside and something inside him went cold. Six riders stood their horses in the street, dark, menacing outlines behind the gusting, gray curtain of the rain. Behind them, on foot, their bare heads bowed, were Lorraine and Nellie. Both had their hands tied in front of them, and loops around their necks roped to the saddle horn of a long-haired man wearing a flat-brimmed black hat, its domed crown circled by a wide band of blue, Apache beadwork. Somebody said something to the man and he grinned, and jerked on the rope, pulling both women off their feet and sending them sprawling in the mud. He turned in the saddle and yelled, so loud Kane could hear, “Women! No talk!”

  This time the others laughed.

  As the wind shifted and parted the curtain for a moment, the marshal recognized the horses four of the men rode. The slender threads of civilized behavior that lay buried within Logan Kane and kept him together snapped one by one, hastening his descent into barbarism.

  Nothing that was human remained of Kane as he bellowed his teeth-bared rage and sprinted for the door. Behind him he heard Vito yell, “No!” But, now beyond hearing, he ignored him.

  The Apache, more wary than the others, saw Kane as the hotel door burst open. The man lunged for the booted Spencer under his knee, but Kane shot him out of the saddle. Hick Dietz, missing his right thumb, made a play with his left hand. Kane fired, missed, fired again and Dietz fell into the mud, screaming.

  Now Kane was aware of the wicked crack! crack! crack! of Vito’s gun. He saw Amos Albright, the man who enjoyed killing women, reel in the saddle.

  Jack Henry was shooting and Kane felt a tremendous blow to his left side. To his surprise, the boardwalk rushed up to meet him and slammed into him with sickening force. He was on his belly, his face in the dirt. He tried to raise his gun, but it was too heavy for him. Vito was out in the mud, firing, his gun at eye level. But then Kane saw only cascading rain and an empty street. And then he saw nothing at all.

  Chapter 28

  “He’s coming around.”

  Lorraine’s voice.

  Kane’s eyes fluttered open. The woman’s face, blurred in the lamplight, swam over his. “How are you feeling?”

  “How do you think I’m feelin’?” he said with the querulous tone of an invalid. Kane recognized it and tried to make amends. “What happened?”

  “You got shot,” Vito said. He sounded cheerful enough.

  “Where?”

  “Out on the boardwalk.”

  Kane allowed himself to sound peevish again. “I mean, what part of me got shot?”

  “You took a bullet through your side,” Lorraine said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, but I’d say there’s nothing vital damaged inside you.” She laid a hand on his forehead. “But I don’t know for sure.”

  Kane struggled to sit higher and the woman plumped pillows behind him. He was naked under the blanket, his waist bandaged by what looked like a torn-up sheet. He looked around him. He was in his room in the Tontine Hotel, a glowing oil lamp hanging from a beam above the bed, an orb of orange light that did little to banish the darkness. Vito stood across the room, Kane’s Winchester in his arms.

  The marshal looked at him. He felt as weak as a kitten. “I don’t remember much after the shooting started.”

  “You killed two of them, an Indian and a man missing a thumb. I wounded another—I don’t know how badly.” Vito smiled. “It took the thumbless bandit a while to die and he cursed some. He sure didn’t like you very much, Marshal.”

  Kane ignored that. “Stringfellow and Henry, where are they?”

  “Skedaddled.” This from Lorraine.

  Kane struggled to rise. “I have to go after them.”

  The woman pushed him back onto the pillows. He was so weak he couldn’t resist. “You stay right where you are, Logan. Catching those two can wait.”

  “There are four of them, though I think the one I hit will be out of it for a while,” Vito said.

  “That was Amos Albright. He’s made a career of murdering women.”

  Vito smiled. “Well, a most singular man. I’m very glad I shot him.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “Marshal, they all saw you go down. You’re all shot to pieces, a hole in your thigh and now another in your side. I don’t think those bandits rode too far, knowing you’re bound to be feeling poorly.”

  “You think they might come back tonight?”

  Vito lifted his arms, showing the rifle. “What do you think?”

  “Shot through and through or no, I have to get out of this bed,” Kane said.

  “No you don’t,” Lorraine said, pushing him back again. Her face was clouded by worry.

  Kane’s head was spinning and he gratefully sank back on the pillows. “My revolver?”

  “Right here on the floor, beside you,” Lorraine said. “I reloaded it.”

  The marshal nodded wearily. “Thank you.”

  Guilt didn’t creep up on him slowly; it hit him like a fist. He had been so preoccupied with his own concerns that he hadn’t asked Lorraine about what had happened to her and Nellie.

  Now, fearing the reply, he said haltingly, as though speaking in a language foreign to him, “Lorraine . . . you and Nellie . . . what . . . ?”

  The woman’s face betrayed nothing. “Stringfellow promised us to the Apache, but only after you were dead. He starved us, beat us and dragged us behind his horse, but that was all.” She looked hard at Kane. “Does that answer your question?”

  “Where is Nellie?”

  “She’s helping Mr. Pitt.”

  “Who’s Mr. Pitt?”

  “The hotel cook. He and Nellie are making you soup. It will build up your strength.”

  “Lorraine, when Stringfellow rode in, did he know we were here?”

  “Yes, he did. He didn’t really think you’d give him a three-day start, so the Apache was always riding out to keep track of you. He found the dead men you left behind at the dugout saloon. At least, I suppose it was you.”

  “What happened to the Lipan girls?” Kane asked, letting go of the woman’s comment. “Stringfellow and the others were riding their horses.”

  “The Apache found them.” Lorraine’s skin tightened against her cheekbones and she shook her head. The gesture said it all.

  “Logan, the Apache told Stringfellow he could kill you and Vito at any time,” Lorraine said. “Stringfellow said he didn’t want that. He wanted to kill you himself and make sure you knew you were dying.”

  “Sounds like him,” Kane said. He extended an arm and lightly touched Lorraine’s cheek. “You look tired, woman. You’ve come a fur piece on foot across some mighty hard country. Have you eaten anything?”

  “Nellie and Mr. Pitt are bringing me food.”

  The cook, Nellie in tow, appeared a few minutes later, bearing a loaded tray. It seemed he’d made an extra effort for the ladies. “Beef sandwiches, ma’am,” he said to Lorraine, “on sourdough bread I baked my ownself. An’ tea. You like tea?”

  The woman smiled her thanks and Vito said sourly, remembering his own meal, “What happened, Mr. Pitt, you run out of elk?”

  The cook was not fazed. “I always push game meats. If’n you wanted beefsteak an’ taters, you should have asked fer beefsteak an’ taters.”

  Kane smiled. “Vito, never start an argument with a woman or a ranch cook. You can’t win against either one.”

  For his part, the marshal was happy with his soup, a broth of beef, onions and some kind of wild greens. Lorraine was right; it would give him strength. But the question was, when?

  Heavy, booted feet sounded in the hallway outside, then stopped. “Marshal Logan Kane!” A man’s voice, made rough with
years of whiskey and tobacco.

  “Who is it?” Vito yelled, bringing up the Winchester.

  “Got a message fer Kane. Who I am, don’t matter.”

  Vito pushed the blanket aside and stepped into the corridor. Kane heard him say, “What’s the message?”

  “Buff Stringfellow says for him to look at the gallows.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Vito stepped into the room just as Kane was lowering the hammer of his Colt. “I heard what he said. You ever see that man before?”

  Vito shook his head. “No. A miner maybe? That’s what he looked like.”

  The wound in his side had slowed Kane, not only physically, but mentally. Cursing himself for not asking the question earlier, he said, “Where’s Dawson?”

  “At the livery. He said he always slept there and Katie Gordon wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him.”

  “Give me my hat and my clothes,” Kane said. He swung his legs out of the bed and immediately the room around him spun wildly.

  “Logan, you’re not fit to go anywhere,” Lorraine protested.

  “Damn it, woman, do as I say.”

  Vito shook his head. “Ma’am, you can’t argue with a woman, a cook or a mule. Better do as he says.”

  Kane put on his hat, then his clothes, and stomped into his boots. He buckled on his gun belt, swaying like a sailor on the deck of his ship in a storm. The left side of his waist bulged with the thick pad Lorraine had placed under the bandage. He saw blood seeping through his shirt. His head was throbbing and the pain from his wound chewed at him.

  “For pity’s sake, Marshal, you’re shot to doll rags,” Vito said. “You got to find a hole to crawl into until this is over.”

  Kane gritted his teeth. He was aware of Nellie looking at him, her eyes huge. “It will not be over until I get Buff Stringfellow, Jack Henry, Amos Albright and Reuben Largo to Fort Smith.” He looked at Vito. “Then I’ll find that hole.”

  “Logan . . . please . . . don’t get killed like Sam did.” Nellie was looking at him, her eyes damp.