Journey into Violence

by William W. Johnstone

“Nope. He’s still there.”

  “Then Lowery didn’t kill Alva Cranley,” Bat said.

  “No, I guess not . . .” Hinkle didn’t sound like he was sure of anything.

  “Maybe the man who murdered Sarah Hollis also killed this woman.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You asked for my help, George.”

  “I know I did, but Hank Lowery killed Sarah Hollis and there’s an end to it. I told the same thing to that Kate Kerrigan woman. She thinks he’s innocent and says she aims to prove it. ”

  “I heard some cowboys in the Long Branch talking about her earlier tonight,” Bat said. “Seems she’s a rancher and somebody took a shot at her and hit her son.”

  “Before he died, a rube by the name of Adam Cook said he was paid fifty dollars to kill Mrs. Kerrigan. Her son was burned by the bullet intended for her but his wound is nothing serious.”

  “Did you kill Cook?”

  “No. Mrs. Kerrigan’s segundo done for him. A man named Cobb.”

  “Would that be Frank Cobb out of the Texas Brazos Valley country?”

  “His name is Frank. That’s all I know about him.”

  “If he’s Brazos Frank Cobb he ran with some wild ones back in the day.”

  “He’s a hand with a gun. I can tell you that much.”

  “Did Kate Kerrigan let it be known that she thinks Hank Lowery is an innocent man?”

  “Let it be known? Hell, Bat, she was here while the impression of Sarah’s body still lay on the bed. She said she plans to find the girl’s real killer. Mrs. Kerrigan is a strong-willed woman, and by now I reckon everybody in Dodge knows that she’s on the scout. Her and her son and Frank Cobb.”

  “Don’t you think it strange that an attempt would be made on Mrs. Kerrigan’s life right after she announces to the world that she’s planning to find Sarah Hollis’s killer?”

  “Bat, it was a coincidence. You know Texans. They’re born to the feud. Some other rancher may have it in for her and paid the rube to do his dirty work.”

  A rising wind rustled around the cabin. The lamp flame fluttered and caused the dark shadows of the two men to move back and forth on the wall. Somewhere a door banged and a dog barked once and then fell silent.

  “You’re a hardheaded man, George,” Bat said. “You got your heart set on hanging Hank Lowery and nothing will make you change your mind.”

  “Evidence will. I mean when real, tangible evidence is presented to me that the murder was done by somebody else or a person or persons unknown.”

  Outside, footsteps crunched on the gravel path and then stopped.

  Hinkle and Bat exchanged glances.

  “Give me your gun,” Bat said.

  “You don’t carry one?”

  “Hell, man, I’m in my nightshirt.”

  Hinkle passed over his Colt, a large revolver with rubber grips and a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. The barrel and cylinder were specked all over with rust.

  “Don’t you ever clean this thing?” Bat said. “How old is the ammunition?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a couple years.”

  “Damned politician. How did you ever beat me in the election? It’s a mystery known only to the citizens of Dodge and God.” Bat swung open the cabin door and rushed quickly outside, the Colt up and ready. In the gloom, he saw a man rapidly walk away from him.

  “Hey you!” Bat yelled. “Hold up there!” Barely visible, the man turned and snapped off a shot, his gun flaring in darkness. Bat heard the bullet zzzip an inch past his head.

  Sweet Jesus! The ranny could shoot.

  Bat did not return fire. He’d be shooting into Front Street where the late-night sporting crowd still walked. He watched the man disappear into the darkness.

  Hinkle stepped beside Bat. “Are you hurt? Did he get a bullet into you?”

  “He missed. Just missed.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Too dark. But he can shoot, I can tell you that. He scared the hell out of me. Here, take your gun. Damn thing probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

  “Who was that man?” Hinkle said. “What was he doing here?”

  “George, I’d say it was the feller who murdered Alva Cranley and probably the one who murdered Sarah Hollis. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it’s what I think.”

  “Where do we go from here?” Hinkle said miserably, a man who knew he was way out of his depth.

  “Me, I’m going back to bed. You’re going to clean and oil your revolver and load it with new ammunition. And leave an empty chamber under the hammer, George. Less chance of shooting off your damn toes that way.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Kate and Frank entered the sheriff’s office. Sheriff George T. Hinkle, sitting behind his desk, said, “Alva Cranley was murdered last night. Strangled. I think her killer took a pot at Bat Masterson out there in the lane.”

  “Masterson get hurt?” Frank Cobb asked.

  “No. But he says the bullet came close enough to scare the hell out of him.”

  “The man who killed Alva also murdered Sarah Hollis,” Kate said. “Sheriff Hinkle, that fact will be the basis for your new line of investigation, and you must act quickly.”

  “Mrs. Kerrigan, Hank Lowery was found in Sarah’s shack, the bloody knife that killed her in his hand,” Hinkle said. “You know what that is? I’ll tell you. It’s a fact, and facts are what get a man hung.”

  “Sheriff, I’m getting extremely irritated with your pigheadedness,” Kate said.

  “And I with yours, madam.”

  “The murderer who killed the two women also paid an assassin to kill me,” Kate said. “That fact should be obvious to even the most dense of men.”

  Frank saw Hinkle’s face redden and he stepped in to calm the situation. “Sheriff, I have a question for you. Adam Cook told us a big man paid him to kill Mrs. Kerrigan. How many really big men are in town?”

  “Dozens.” Hinkle still glared at Kate. “Some of them beef-fed Texas boys grow to size.”

  “How about permanent residents?” Frank said.

  “Well, there’s Reuben Mattock—”

  “Write this down in your tally book, Frank,” Kate said.

  “There’s Reuben Mattock,” Hinkle said as though Kate hadn’t spoken. “He owns the Cake and Cookie Bakery. Reuben probably dresses out at around four hundred pounds.”

  “How tall is he?” Frank said.

  “Not tall. He’s just fat.”

  “Not quite what we had in mind,” Kate said. “Is there anyone else?”

  “Tom Bender the blacksmith is big. So is Harry Cord, who owns the lumber company, and then there’s the Methodist parson Lafayette Hooks. He stands maybe five inches over six feet, but he’s as skinny as the shadow of a barbed-wire fence.”

  “To the best of your knowledge, do any of these men regularly seek the company of loose women?” Frank could have said it in plainer English, but Kate might disapprove.

  “Bender and Cord are both God-fearing family men,” Hinkle said. “I don’t know about Parson Hooks, but he’s walking out with Miss Maude Depham, the piano teacher. Maude reads scripture every day, drinks prune juice, and she and Hooks are reckoned to be a perfectly suited couple. I doubt the parson chases after fancy women.”

  “Not much to go on, is there?” Kate said.

  “Best I can do, Mrs. Kerrigan. That’s all the big men I know.” Hinkle smiled. “With the exception of Mr. Cobb here.”

  Kate looked at her segundo. “Do you wish to assassinate me, Frank?”

  He shook his head. “Never even crossed my mind.”

  “Well, there you have it, Sheriff Hinkle. Now I’ll talk to Mr. Lowery, if you please. Did you get him his cigars and some books?”

  “The best five-cent cigars in town, Mrs. Kerrigan. And some works of Sir Woody Scott.”

  “Sir Walter Scott,” Kate said.

  “Yeah,” Hinkle said, brightening. “That’s the feller.”

&n
bsp; * * *

  Standing outside the cell, Kate and Frank told Hank Lowery about the murder of Alva Cranley and the attempt on Kate’s life.

  “All we know is that a big man wanted Kate dead,” Frank said. “Do you recollect seeing any really big men in town before you were arrested?”

  Lowery shook his head. “I saw a lot of big men, but didn’t pay them much mind.” Suddenly, a stored memory gleamed in his eyes. “Wait. I did see a tall, well-built man. His name is Maddox Franklin and he’s the owner of the Top Hat.” Lowery shrugged. “But why would Maddox be involved with a gal on the line? Seems to me he has all the women he wants right there in his saloon.”

  “He’s worth talking to, though,” Kate said. “He’s obviously around women a lot.”

  Hank Lowery shook his head. “Mrs. Kerrigan, you’re flogging a dead horse. Hinkle means to hang me. He’s made that clear, and I have nothing to bargain with.”

  Frank said, “If it’s any consolation, Lowery, when Hinkle hangs you, I think he’ll have strung up the wrong man.”

  “Well, I’ll hold on to that. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.

  * * *

  Only a handful of customers were in the Top Hat when Kate swept inside and demanded to see the proprietor, Maddox Franklin.

  The duty bartender polished a glass and laid it on the gantry behind him before he answered. “Mr. Franklin never gets up before dusk, ma’am.” He looked Kate up and down and added, “If you want a job, go talk to Caddy Early in the booth over there by the stage. She does Mr. Franklin’s hiring.”

  To Frank’s surprise Kate showed no offense.

  “Not that I wouldn’t be good at it, but I’m not here to find a job. I need a few questions answered.”

  “Then ask away,” the bartender said, picking up another glass. “It ain’t like I’m real busy or nothing.”

  “What is your name?” Kate said.

  “Ed Fetter. What’s yours?”

  “Kate Kerrigan.”

  “Sure you don’t want to work here? You’d look kinda cute in one of them little top hats.”

  “I am not here to discuss millinery, Mr. Fetter, though it’s a subject dear to my heart. Now answer this and please be frank. Does Mr. Maddox Franklin avail himself of the services of prostitutes?”

  Fetter lifted the glass he was polishing to the light and studied it closely before he answered. “Look around you, lady. What do you think this place is? A nunnery?”

  “Let me rephrase what I said, Mr. Fetter: Did Mr. Franklin ever visit a prostitute by the name of Sarah Hollis?”

  “No.”

  “You seem very certain.”

  “I am certain.”

  “Tell me why. Come now, don’t be reticent.”

  Fetter exchanged glances with Frank and thought he saw a shadow of sympathy in the big man’s eyes. “Mrs. Kerrigan, Sarah Hollis would come in here some nights when her business was slow. I liked her and didn’t charge her for drinks or the crackers and cheese we put out on the bar. She had been pretty once but not any longer. Laudanum had aged her and one time she told me that a client had introduced her to opium smoking.”

  Fetter leaned across the bar, closer to Kate. “Mrs. Kerrigan, Sarah Hollis worked the line. Her next step down, and she could only go lower, would be a hog farm. After that, she’d die. Laudanum could kill her or she’d kill herself.” The bartender straightened. “Mr. Franklin will take in at least ten thousand dollars tonight. Men like him don’t use line girls. Now, does that answer your question?”

  “Perhaps, but it leads to another question, Mr. Fetter. What kind of men frequent the line shacks?”

  “All kinds, but mainly down-and-outs, the dirty and diseased, the scum of the earth with two dollars to spend. There are others—men who like to use and abuse women. I think Sarah knew one or two of them judging by her face.”

  “Oh dear God, the poor woman,” Kate said.

  Fetter nodded. “Sarah had a hard life, Mrs. Kerrigan. She sure didn’t deserve the end she got. I’m all done talking about her.” He called out to a passing waiter. “Hey, Andy, bring me some rum and a few bottles of champagne for the flips. Here, I’ll help you . . .” And then he was gone.

  Kate looked at Frank as though she expected him to throw her a lifeline. But there was none forthcoming, forcing her to ask, “Well, Frank, where do we go from here?”

  “Back to the hotel, I guess, and check on the invalid.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant, Kate, and the answer is that I’ve no idea.”

  “We need to come up with something if we’re to save Hank Lowery.”

  “We could always bust him out of jail and light a shuck for Texas.” He saw the frown on Kate’s face and said, “All right, that was a bad idea.”

  “No, it’s not a bad idea and I’m taking it seriously. If worse comes to worst I may be tempted to try it.”

  “Hinkle would send out wires and the moment we left the Indian Territory and crossed the Canadian we’d find ourselves up to our armpits in Texas Rangers. Lowery would still get hung, and we’d face years in a federal penitentiary.”

  “You don’t paint a pretty picture, Frank.”

  “You’re right. It’s not a pretty picture, but it’s the truth.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When he was full of Kansas sheep dip, the Texas cowboy was a bad man to handle. Usually lawmen stayed in the background and allowed him to blow off steam until he called it a night and crawled into the nearest hollow log to sleep it off.

  But a much more dangerous caste of men was in Dodge City, quieter men with careful eyes who looked at nothing directly, but were aware of everything. Called shootists, pistoleros, or gunmen, some were of the new breed of Texas draw fighters that made the newspaper headlines and the covers of the dime novels. Like all the other two-legged predators in town, their only reason for being there was to prey on the cowboys. Their weapons were cards and dice. In a wild violent town, their gun reputations were sufficient to keep most of them alive.

  Such a man was Morgan Braddock.

  Some said he’d killed twenty men, others half that number, but when he was in his cups and maudlin, Braddock admitted to only nine, all of them kills-for-hire. So when a big man, rough as a cob, approached him in the Long Branch and offered him a contract kill, Braddock jumped at the chance. He’d been losing big at the tables and a fast five hundred, just like that, would put him back in the game.

  “Can you handle Frank Cobb?” the big man said.

  “Never heard of him, but I can handle anybody you care to mention,” Braddock said.

  “He’s a tall, good-looking—”

  “No need to spell it out. If he’s a gun, I’ll peg him.”

  “Because of the murders the whores are staying away from the line, but Cobb and a woman will be there tonight at ten. I sent a boy to deliver a message to their hotel that will draw them out. It’s the woman I’m most interested in. Red hair, expensive clothes, real pretty. I mean a looker. I want her dead, dead, dead, Braddock. Dead as hell in a parson’s parlor. The five hundred is for both, but you give me clean kills, no maybes, and I’ll add another hundred.”

  “You got it,” Braddock said, counting the five hundred, all in federal bills. “When the job is over and the killing is done, I’ll come back for the other hundred.”

  The big man studied the gunman’s duds, black shirt, pants, boots, hat, gun, holster, and cartridge belt. “You always dress like that, all in black like an undertaker?”

  “Yeah. I’m always in mourning for the men I’ve killed.”

  “And now you’ll mourn a woman.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “Cobb’s fast. Killed a man only last night.”

  “Men are always getting themselves killed,” Braddock said. “Now get the hell away from me. I like to think when I’m drinking.”

  “Remember, I want it clean. No slipups.”


  “Beat it.”

  After the big man left, Braddock stared at the painting of a nude woman above the bar. To the bartender he said, “Who is she?”

  The bartender glanced at the painting. “Bat Masterson says—hey—do you know him?”

  “By sight. What does he say?”

  “Well, he says the gal’s name is Mattie Blaylock, one time the common-law wife of an Arizona lawman by the name of Earp. Masterson says she was facing hard times when she posed for the picture for fifty dollars.”

  “She isn’t pretty,” Braddock said.

  “Mister, nobody who comes into the Long Branch looks at her face.”

  “Big ass.”

  “Yeah. I guess from her ass alone the painter got his fifty dollars’ worth,” The bartender flipped a towel over his shoulder and stepped away.

  Braddock continued to study the nude, his intense sky blue eyes moving over her shoulders, breasts, slightly rounded belly, and then to her hips again. Soft, all of her soft. He drained his whiskey glass. Damn! He’d never thought about it before—where do you shoot a woman?

  * * *

  Drugo Odell studied himself in the full-length mirror in his hotel room. What a pity no one ever saw him without his coat. The oxblood shoulder holster he wore had been made and hand-tooled by an Austrian craftsman, the carving done in the ancient Celtic style, and it fitted his Colt like a glove. So pleased had Odell been by the work, it crossed his mind to kill the Austrian so that he’d never make another quite like it. But when the old man declared it his masterpiece, sadly swearing that as he entered his dotage he would never surpass its beauty and function, Odell let him off the hook. The old fool would die soon enough anyway.

  Odell sighed and covered up the beautiful gun rig with his high-button coat. Sarah Hollis had long admired his holster and that had pleased him. Of course, she’d had to die and that was unfortunate. Telling him that she was running away with an eighteen-year-old Texas puncher—to get married, or so she said—was an insult not to be borne. That was why she got the bowie knife in her chest. The cowboy, his name was Rusty Rhodes for God’s sake, left Dodge with his outfit and Odell never knew if he planned to marry her or not. Probably not. Under the spell of whiskey and the heat of lust, a cowboy would pretty much tell a woman like Sarah anything she wanted to hear.