Then he did something.
He laughed deep in his chest, strong and loud, sounding healthier than he should have, but the laugh broke into a chuckle and died as quickly as it had arisen. He lifted his eyes and stared across the short distance at Wingate.
“You tell Kings,” he said, smiling weakly, “not to keep me waitin’ too long on you fellas.” He coughed blood, and his voice failed to recover its strength. “Sure enough . . . he’ll be sendin’ you down after me.”
Wingate broke open his weapon, spilling detonated shells across the puncheon. He came close and dropped to his haunches, saying into Zeller’s face, “You’ll wait a long while, you damn Yankee.”
But Dave Zeller, knowing it wouldn’t be long, had already closed his eyes. He saw a haze, ember-red at first, that swirled and faded gold like summer hay.
CHAPTER 15
The twilight was deepening as the cavalcade entered Austin from the northwest. Streetlamps had been lit, and, while town proper was empty, there was plenty of light and sound coming upstreet from the playhouse, the gambling halls, and the bawdy houses. Somewhere, someone started a jangling tune on a piano, and a woman was laughing.
There was no mirth to be found among the horsemen, though. They had been on the trail for nearly two months—six weeks and four days was the exact count, but once a man got west of Austin, time really stopped mattering. From the watering hole where Tom Seward met his end, they’d pursued the second fugitive upcountry to the barren Staked Plains, the Llano Estacado, and it was in that desolation that they lost his tracks.
Outside Smith’s Hotel, Stringer signaled for a halt. He dismounted and passed his reins to Leduc. “We’ll head out again in a week,” he said, looking up. “Need to reassemble, resupply, go over our next move. I know you don’t have much stomach for politics, so Mincey and I’ll report to the governor. Mind puttin’ up the horses?”
“Not at all.” Leduc braced both hands on the saddle horn and stretched. “Give him my regards.”
Mincey climbed down and came up alongside Stringer—unshaven, rumpled, and a far cry from the spit-and-polish city detective from before. Delaney sat a crooked saddle nearby, and, unsurprisingly, the volunteers from Refuge seemed far worse for wear. As a whole, they appeared to have been drained of their zeal, exhausted to the point of falling out.
Stringer pulled his rifle from the scabbard, fitted it under one armpit, pocketed his hands, and ducked his head up the lane. “Come on, Walter. Let’s go see Hubbard.”
Leduc, Delaney, and the volunteers rode off for the livery. Stringer and Mincey trudged up the wheel-rutted road and soon came in sight of the dome and spire of the state capitol.
“We might hafta ride on the Big Bend after all, Walt,” Stringer said.
Mincey looked at him. “I don’t imagine the others will be too pleased to hear that.”
“I ain’t too tickled by the idea, neither, but it makes the most damn sense. Oughta strike soon, ’fore they start missin’ home too much.”
“Might have a point there.”
“Damn shame we couldn’t close the deal with Zeller, if that’s who we was chasin’.”
“Too early to go callin’ this operation a bust or a jackpot, you ask me.”
At the capitol, legislators were on their way out for the evening. Within, a clerk in gartered sleeves was flitting about the room, turning off lamps. As Stringer and Mincey endeavored to pass him, the clerk maneuvered into their path, informing the lawmen that the governor was preparing to head home.
Stringer extended the barrel of his rifle and brushed the clerk aside like a curtain. “Nothin’ personal, son,” he said. “I just ain’t in the mood.”
The governor’s office was in disarray, with piles of books stacked like crooked chimneys on his disorganized desk and several boxes acting as giant paperweights on the floor. The door, when opened, clunked into an empty cigar box, the same one Hubbard had offered to Stringer and Leduc at their first meeting.
The man himself turned from the window with his sleeves rolled up and an amber-filled, square-bottomed glass in his hand. “Captain Stringer, Detective Mincey!” he said with genuine surprise. “Welcome back to civilization.”
Mincey seated himself and said, “We may be back in civilization at the moment, Governor, but we won’t be staying very long.”
“Oh?”
Stringer nodded. “We plan to head back out in a week or so, after we resupply and have a good look at the way things are at the moment.”
Hubbard drew closer, anticipation showing on his broad features. “And how are things at the moment?”
Stringer deferred to Mincey with a subtle gesture, and the Pinkerton straightened in his chair. “Well, two weeks ago,” he began, “we were ambushed at a water hole by two members of the gang. We’d been trackin’ ’em, and it was just a matter of time before they realized they were being followed. So they decided to do what a crook on the run does best. Luckily, we escaped without any wounds to speak of, and we managed a good fight. The outlaw Tom Seward was killed, but the man he was with—Dave Zeller, we think—got away.”
The governor took a minute to digest the report, then spoke with his eyes on the floor. “Well, that’s—that’s somethin’. Mr. Pinkerton and I wouldn’t have chosen you gents for this job if we didn’t have the utmost confidence in your abilities. And we still do, boys, I can assure you. Only, don’t let any of ’em get away next time.”
Stringer gazed at the cigar box on the floor, more than slightly rankled at Hubbard’s demeanor. Mincey, busy with the filling of his pipe, showed no outward signs of emotion, but his silence was telltale. For the first time in a long time, the governor sensed he might have said the wrong thing.
“You know, it’s a damn shame,” Hubbard remarked, moving back to his desk, “that I won’t be here to see this righteous mission through to the end. My term’s about up, boys.”
Mincey dropped the match on the floor after lighting his pipe and seemed to change the subject. “Sir, we realize how late it is, but before you head home, the captain and I were wondering if you might have any input as to what our next step should be. You were an officer during the war, after all.”
Hubbard sat down, expertly masking his slight embarrassment with a dignified descent and a ponderous frown. “That’s a difficult nut to crack, gentlemen, and I fear that I’ve become less of a soldier and more of a politician over the years. But as I understand it, the Big Bend encompasses over a thousand square miles of arroyos and gullies them renegades know like I know my wife’s purty face. I wouldn’t think it wise to ride in there with anything less than a company of rangers. Even soldiers.”
The metronome Stringer remembered so clearly stood on the edge of the governor’s desk. He reached out a finger and set its beater in motion. “I had my way,” he grumped, “I’d send him a damn telegram and have him meet me on open ground, though I doubt any telegrapher’d be willin’ to deliver the message.”
Minutes passed with nothing said, and the ticking of the metronome was loud in the stillness. Then Mincey looked up with a light in his blue eyes.
“Captain,” he said, “you might just have somethin’ there.” He turned to the governor. “Have you made our employment and purpose known, sir? By word of mouth or by puttin’ it in the papers?”
“I haven’t. Mr. Pinkerton and I agreed this enterprise should be kept a secret so as not to inspire a legion of glory-hounds. Most bounty hunters in the country have just about given up on trying to fetch the scalp of our Mr. Kings—and most lawmen, far as that goes—but if word of this got out . . . why, they might feel as if this was a . . . competition. We didn’t fancy riskin’ that.”
“Let’s risk it.”
Hubbard blinked. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I suggest we print it in every paper this side of Chicago,” Mincey said. “Kings has to leave his hideout sometime. He has to ride to the nearest town for provisions, or one of his men does, and where there’s a town
, there’s newspapers, and if there are none, there’s folks bound to be talking about what they’ve heard. Let the nation know, and in doing so, let Kings know about our cause, about our fight with two of his men. How that ended up. The news is sure to get him mad and when a man gets mad, he loses control of his faculties. He’ll want blood for what we did to Zeller and Seward, and he won’t rest till he avenges them. He’s got a reputation to uphold.”
“I might grant you that, but what is it you were saying about Captain Stringer’s suggestion?”
“Well, in that same paper, why not run . . . an announcement? Something to bait him, to bring him out into the open, and let the chips fall where they may.”
Hubbard persisted, “But what would draw him out, is what I’m asking. What kind of announcement? And how do we know he’d take the bait? I’d think the man’s sharp enough to see through any such ruse.”
Mincey puffed on his pipe. “Like I said, the news will enrage Kings, make him do things he normally wouldn’t. He’d be blinded by his anger, prompting rash action. You said he hasn’t been touched in twelve years, Governor. Well, that must’ve done something to the man’s ego.” He glanced at Stringer, whose eyes were suddenly cagey and alert, his posture straighter. “Put it out in the papers that, say, some kind of big hullabaloo—a celebration, an anniversary, anything—is to happen in this town, on this day. Somethin’ to catch the eye, in the first place. And make it a town with a real fat bank. Why wouldn’t Kings take the bait?”
“Have to contact the local authorities, clear it with them,” Hubbard supposed. “But wait a minute, now. What kind of lawman would invite such a thing upon his people?”
Mincey did not hesitate. “The kind of lawman who wants to do the country a service—put a mad dog down for good. But leaving that aside one moment, sir, let’s circle back to what you were saying—about him seeing through this. Our boy is sure to, of course. He wouldn’t’ve survived more’n a decade on the run if he wasn’t smart. He’ll know it’s a trap, but I’ve got a feeling he’ll accept our challenge. He’ll want to prove for good and all that he’s above the law. That he’s unstoppable, and any man crazy enough to try and tackle him is a dead man.
“He’ll ride in to take the town bank, and we’ll be waitin’ for him. Him and his boys won’t get any further than the dry-goods store.”
Leduc held the pocket watch up to the light and stared at the hands that hadn’t ticked in years. That the timepiece no longer worked didn’t matter so much—it was the only heirloom in his family, having been handed down from his grandfather and finally coming to him when his father died five years ago. Moreover, there was the tintype on the inside, a likeness of his mother as a middle-aged woman, with a churchy shawl over her curly black hair and a blank expression on her very striking, very French, features. He ought to write her again soon, ease her worries once more . . . Leduc stroked the cold image with his thumb, then slipped the watch back down into his left vest pocket.
He and Delaney were stationed in the second room at the top of the stairs at Smith’s. Two other rooms on the same floor were occupied by possemen, another at street-level, and already they could hear snoring through the walls.
Reclining comfortably on the springy bed, the Pinkerton was polishing his Model 3 Smith & Wesson. Leduc was in a chair by the window, his hat on the lamp stand at his elbow. Having secreted the watch, his attention was drawn to the street below. A well-dressed man was escorting his wife up the hotel steps.
“So how long, exactly,” Delaney asked from the bed, “have you been a ranger?”
Leduc took a moment. “Eight years, this past August. How long you been with the Big Eye?”
“Seven. What’d you do before that, if you don’t mind my asking?”
When Leduc threw him a quizzical look, Delaney explained, “Well, now, seein’ as how it looks like we’re gonna be in this thing for a while yet, we might as well get to know each other better. Won’t have much time for these kinda questions on the trail, will we?”
Leduc wondered what to tell him. “Well, I was a shotgun guard for Wells Fargo for a spell. Before that I rode four years under Old Glory durin’ the war.”
Delaney nodded, not commenting on the curiosity of a Deep Southerner like Leduc serving in the Union army. “And were you conscripted into President Lincoln’s service?”
“I was a volunteer,” Leduc replied, and, suddenly, he felt like talking. “In them days leadin’ up, you had rich plantation owners and bushy-bearded politicians condemning the Yankee invaders and their nerve to try and change our way of life. Way they figured it, we were fightin’ our second war of independence, but myself, I couldn’t see the sense in what the Confederacy said they was fightin’ over. How could they claim to be fightin’ for their natural-born rights while denyin’ them to a whole race of people?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“So I caught a fast horse, rode like hell for Union Kentucky, and volunteered.”
“See any action?”
Leduc turned away from the window to better face Delaney. “Three weeks after muster,” he said, “we got bushwhacked on the road to Hopkinsville. Turns out it was Bedford Forrest and his cavalry, and, boy, did they have us outnumbered. We lost seven men, and I don’t know how many more of our boys got shot up. We winged a few of theirs, killed four. Three troopers and an officer.”
A loud popping noise came from up the street, but he had heard so much gunfire in his life that he scarcely paid it any mind. Outside a deputy’s boots clouted the boardwalks as he ran to find out who had shot and why.
Leduc continued. “It was my ball that killed the officer, but at the time I wasn’t thinkin’ about his rank or if we could mebbe barter him. I wasn’t but twenty. Hell, I was just fightin’ to stay alive.”
“You probably weren’t alone.”
“I served at Parryville, Franklin, and Wildcat Creek in Tennessee, where I almost got my head blown off by some kid younger, even, than me. I took his rifle, gave him a boot in the butt, and sent him back feelin’ sorry for himself.” He chuckled. “I rode through Atlanta with General Sherman all the way to the Atlantic, but I ain’t exactly proud of everything that transpired on that march. Yes. I’ve seen some action.”
Delaney spoke with eyebrows raised. “I’d say by the time you became a ranger, you were pretty used to gettin’ shot at.”
“Oh, yeah.” Leduc got up and threw Delaney’s coat at him. “Finish what you’re doin’, then take a walk with me.” He held up a hand with his thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “I could tear into a good, thick steak.”
At the front desk Delaney bent over the counter and asked the man where a fellow could come by some oysters and a hot meal. He already knew about the chili joint, he said, but was after a place with silverware and papered walls.
He joined Leduc on the porch a few minutes later, a brown cigar in his teeth, and stabbed a finger down the lane. “The Continental’s where we’re headed.”
They found a vacant corner table and angled their chairs apart so they could both watch the goings-on. Delaney ordered a whiskey and a bowl of oysters on the half-shell, and Leduc requested a well-done steak with beans, spuds, and an iced beer. As the waiter moved off, both men considered their surroundings.
The air was murky with smoke, which blended with the warm glow of the globed wall lamps. A dark mahogany bar dominated the middle of the room, an oblong island adrift in a sea of thirsty men. Batwing doors in a narrow doorway to the rear separated the eatery from the noisy gaming parlor.
Delaney sat back with his hands knit over his belt and took the cigar from his lips to continue the conversation he’d started back in the hotel.
“I was seventeen the year the war ended,” he began, “and, like a fool, I was sad to see the day ’cause I’d been wishing it’d last forever. Understand, my family has a long and proud history of living and dying in every Irish uprising going back to the time of Christ, so Dad wasn’t about to let his only s
on run off and get killed fighting a war that didn’t concern us. Lest I live up to my ancestral history here in the Land of the Free, he kept a closer watch on me than a mother hen.”
“How’d you come to join the Pinkertons?”
“A few years after, Dad procured for me a job driving a milk wagon. One of the houses I stopped by every week, by the grace of God, belonged to Mr. Allan Pinkerton.” He paused to sip his whiskey. “My days as a deliveryman didn’t last long after that first meeting. That’s what you call ironic, isn’t it?”
“I bet your pa had a different word for it.”
“You’re not lyin’,” he said, then glanced away, and for the first time Leduc noticed that the tip of the detective’s left ear had been disfigured. Whether shot or cut, it was missing the lower third—the lobe and a good slice of cartilage along the outside. A surgeon’s blade and needle had done the best they could, but Leduc wondered how he could have missed it before.
Their talk continued at a gradual pace, each man slowly feeling more at ease with the other, until the food arrived. At that point, the conversation ended, and they ate in silence. Delaney proved to be a fast and hearty eater, finding his portion too small. He ordered a second helping, as well as a beer and another whiskey. Leduc, as always, took his time. He looked up when the waiter had gone and said jokingly, “You are payin’ for your own meal, you know that.”
“I didn’t think ranger pay would cover this,” Delaney deadpanned.
As slowly as he chewed, Leduc had nevertheless finished his supper by the time the waiter reappeared with Delaney’s order. He shoved his plate away and sat back, contentedly digging at a string of meat stuck between his teeth. It was only by sheer happenstance that his gaze at that moment landed on a seedy pair just now entering.
The one on the right was tall and stooped, wearing a blanket coat. The one on the left was shorter by half a foot, broad-shouldered, with a shoestring mustache. He carried a pistol but his taller companion was apparently armed with nothing but the carbine in his hand.
The Avenging Angels Page 15
