Killer Take All

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Streeter smiled. “Yeah, I’d be happy to take care of it for you.”

  * * *

  “Elmer, would you be for telling me who Pete is?” Duff picked up the shot glass and took a drink after he asked the question.

  “That would be Preston Poindexter, the boy’s daddy,” Elmer answered. “He was my cap’n when I served as bosun on the Appalachia.”

  “And you called your captain by his given name?”

  “No, his given name was Preston. Pete was just what we called him, but we never even done that while we was still on the ship. We didn’t start callin’ him that until after the Appalachia went down ’n we was stranded on the island.”

  “Elmer, you mean to say that you were on a ship that sank, and you were stranded on an island?”

  “Yeah, for more ’n three months we was stranded.”

  “Oh, do tell us about it,” Kay asked enthusiastically. “Was your ship sunk by pirates?”

  “Well, there warn’t no pirates, but I’ll tell you the story if you’d like.”

  Kay, Biff, and Webb Dakota and Jonas Perkins, who had come from the Cattlemen’s Association meeting, as well as some of the other customers who were present in Fiddler’s Green knew that Elmer was quite a raconteur. And upon learning that a story was about to be told, they all gathered around to hear the tale. Many of them moved chairs over from the other tables so that they became an audience to the drama as described by Elmer Gleason.

  At sea, on board the S.S. Appalachia

  The typhoon was unexpected, bowling down on them from out of the Western Pacific. Bound for Australia when the typhoon hit, they were in the central Pacific, just north of the equator, and some 1,700 miles southwest of the Hawaiian Islands.

  The canvas was struck, and Captain Poindexter gave the order to bring the ship into the wind, but Elmer saw right away that they weren’t going to be able to weather the storm. The foremast was whipping back and forth like a wand, and when Elmer heard a loud crack he was afraid it was going to come down.

  “Cap’n, we need to take down the foremast before it comes down on its own,” Elmer said. “If we take it down, we can control it.”

  “Aye, Bosun, take it down,” Preston Poindexter ordered.

  “Lemon, Shuler, Bennet, you three go aloft and cut all stays and braces from the foremast then get some lines attached. Lamdin, when they’re ready, you ’n Cook take axes to it. Bring it down to port,” Elmer ordered, though the shrieking howl of the storm was so loud he had to cup his hands around his mouth and shout at the top of his voice.

  Once the three men he had ordered aloft were in place, he could only watch. No way he could shout any instructions to them. He saw Shuler slip and thought he was going to fall, but somehow, he seemed to be hanging by his legs.

  “Bosun, Shuler has got his leg stuck betwixt the t’gallant spar ’n the brace,” Cook said.

  “I see ’im!” Elmer said as he started up the mast.

  “Bosun, you try ’n get Shuler loose ’n you’ll both get killed,” Lamdin shouted, but his warning was carried away by the wind.

  The ship was rising and falling on the twenty-foot-high waves, as well as rolling at least forty-five degrees from side to side. Above Elmer, Shuler was hanging upside down by the leg that was jammed into the rigging, and his arms were stretched down toward the deck.

  It took maximum effort, not just to climb, but also to hold on to the mast. Just before he reached the topgallant spar, there was another loud crack, and Elmer felt it even above the violent gyrations of the ship. Finally he reached the spar, then straddling it so he could hang on with his legs, he inched his way out to Shuler.

  “Shuler, you still conscious?” he shouted.

  “M’ leg’s hung up,” Shuler called back.

  “Yeah, well, you’d be dead iffen it wasn’t,” Elmer said. Reaching down, he was able to grab Shuler by his waistband, then, with a mighty heave, pulled him upright.

  Once Shuler was upright, he was able to regain his purchase on the spar, and after a quick cut of two more braces, he was free and followed Elmer back down the mast.

  “All right, Lamdin, you ’n Cook take your axes to it. The rest of you, bear a hand on the lines, pull it down to the port, then push it overboard.”

  It took less than a minute to bring the mast down and jettison it, so that there was no longer any danger of it falling into the other masts and rigging.

  They fought the storm valiantly for twelve hours, but in the end, even though the winds and the sea had finally abated, they lost the battle. The storm had caused some severe damage below the waterline, damage that they didn’t even know they had sustained, until someone went below and reported that water was pouring in. The water was rising faster than the bilge pumps could handle, and the ship began going down by the bow. Finally, when Preston Poindexter couldn’t save her, he gave the order to abandon ship.

  * * *

  “Howland Island, it was,” Elmer said. “We knowed where we was, ’cause Cap’n Poindexter was a good navigator. ’N when it come time to get into the lifeboats, well sir, Cap’n Poindexter had his map ’n a pocket compass, ’n he led us. We was in them three boats for ten days till we landed. We didn’t lose a soul while we was at sea neither.”

  “What did you eat, Mr. Gleason?” Kay asked.

  “We had birds, a lot of birds, ’n we done pretty well fishin’ too, so they didn’t none of us get too hungry.”

  “Was there fresh water?” Guthrie asked.

  “No, there ain’t no fresh water nowhere on Howland Island. We done what we could to catch ’n hold the rainwater, but the only problem is, it didn’t rain that much. We wound up havin’ to boil seawater so’s that it evaporated, then catch the vapor ’n let it turn back into water so’s that all the salt was gone. That kept us a-goin’ in between the rainfalls.”

  “My goodness, how did you know how to do that?” Kay asked.

  Elmer chuckled. “Darlin’, I’m from Missouri ’n I didn’t know no one that wasn’t distillin’ corn liquor. I figured if you could distill corn mash, you could distill salt water ’n turns out that we could.”

  “I’ll bet all the others were glad you knew about distillin’ whiskey,” one of the customers said.

  Elmer chuckled. “Yeah, some of ’em was wantin’ me to make some whiskey, but it was hard enough to get fresh water from the salt water. Anyhow, Pete told me that what I done may have more ’n likely saved a mess of us from dyin’ of thirst.”

  “Pete,” Duff said. “Aye, you did say that he asked to be called Pete.”

  “Yeah, Cap’n Poindexter said that if we was to all think of ourselves as friends, rather than just sailors on a ship, that we have a better chance of survivin’ ’cause we would do things for one another. It was his idea that we call each other by our first names, ’n that’s when we found out that his family’n friends all called him Pete, instead of Preston.”

  “How long were you all on that island, Mr. Gleason?” Kay asked.

  “We was on it for three months, one week, ’n four days,” Elmer said. “We was finally rescued by a British ship, the Dauntless, it was. They took us to Honolulu, ’n there we got an American ship to take us back home.”

  “Are you sure that this man you knew is the same Preston Poindexter who owns the Poindexter Railroad and Maritime Corporation?” Duff asked.

  “No, now to be truthful, I ain’t sure it’s the same one. But if the feller that owns this company is the same one that I know, it just don’t seem nothin’ at all like him to be doin’ things the way he is. And this feller Jake Poindexter don’t look nothin’ at all like Pete.”

  * * *

  It was Meagan who came up with the idea. “If Preston Poindexter is the same man who is Elmer’s friend, and if he really is the kind of man Elmer believes him to be, he might be willing to put a stop to what his son is doing out here. All you would have to do is go to New York to see him.”

  “Aye, I could see Elmer and me going to Ne
w York.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You don’t need to, we can—”

  “Do you think I’m going to miss out on the opportunity to go to New York?” Meagan asked. “No, sir, I’m going.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Streeter was in Fiddler’s Green when he overheard the conversation of a couple of the customers at a nearby table.

  “Yeah, Miss Parker is goin’ with ’em,” one of them was saying. “She, MacCallister’n Gleason. It looks like all three of ’em is a-goin’ to New York.”

  “What are they going to New York for?”

  “Ha, get this. It turns out that Elmer Gleason knows Poindexter.”

  “What do you mean? We all know him. He’s been all over town.”

  “No, I ain’t talkin’ ’bout that Poindexter. I’m talking ’bout the old man, Preston Poindexter. The man who owns the whole company.”

  “What’s Gleason goin’ to see him for?”

  “I don’t know if it’s to stop the buildin’ of the railroad, or just to stop ’em from takin’ up all the land. Whatever it is, they’re plannin’ on leavin’ come Monday, ’n will more ’n likely be there within a week.”

  “Why’re they waitin’ till Monday? That’s six days from now. Seems to me like if they was really goin’ to do it, they’d just do it, ’n not wait around none.”

  “Yeah, well it turns out that Miss Parker is needin’ to finish a dress for Webb Dakota’s daughter, Amanda. She’s marryin’ that army fella from Fort Laramie.”

  “Oh, yeah, that would be Lieutenant Kirby. He’s a nice fella, I’ve met him.”

  Streeter listened to the conversation until it turned to a discussion of Amanda Dakota, and how lucky Lieutenant Kirby was to be marrying her. Not having any interest in the details of the upcoming wedding, Streeter left the saloon to report on what he had just heard.

  * * *

  “They’re goin’ to New York?”

  “Yeah,” Streeter said. “I heard some folks talkin’ ’bout it down at Fiddler’s Green. Seems like MacCallister’n Gleason are plannin’ on goin’ to New York to talk to someone there about the railroad. They’ll be leavin’ come Monday.”

  “We can’t let that happen. If they go to corporate headquarters with information about what we are doing here, it could not only stop the flow of income, it could put us in severe legal jeopardy. We have to stop them.”

  “There ain’t no way of stoppin’ ’em short of killin’ ’em,” Dixon said.

  “I agree. I had hoped to avoid such a thing, but I’m afraid we are going to have to get someone to take care of that part of the job for us.”

  “Why do we have to get somebody else to do it?” Dixon asked. “I’ll kill every last one of ’em. Hell, I’d love to do it.”

  “Yeah, especially that old fool Gleason. How hard could it be to kill him?” Caldwell asked.

  “A lot harder ’n you might think,” Streeter said. “You said it yourself, he’s an old man. How do you think he got to be so old?”

  “No, I don’t want to risk anyone within our particular company. We can’t take the chance of any of us getting caught. It would come back onto the rest of us. I will need somebody else, somebody that would be willing to kill them for money.”

  “How much money?” Dixon asked.

  “Why do you ask? Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Yeah, I have someone in mind.”

  “I would be willing to pay five hundred dollars to have the job done. That would be two hundred fifty dollars each for MacCallister and Gleason.”

  “I know somebody that’ll do it for that much money.” Clete Dixon chuckled. “Hell, he’d prob’ly even do it for less money, seein’ as he’s got him a reason for wantin’ it to be done.”

  “Who is this person you are speaking of, and where can we find him?”

  “His name is Grant Slocum, and his brother, Drury, was hung a few months ago on account of MacCallister found ’im, ’n brought ’im in. That mean’s he’s got it in for MacCallister.”

  “Wait a minute, I’ve heard of Grant Slocum,” Streeter said. “Ain’t he supposed to be some kind of a gunfighter or somethin’?”

  “Yeah,” Dixon said.

  “Hell, somebody like that prob’ly won’t come to a one-cow town like Chugwater, even for five hundred dollars,” Hank Mitchell said.

  “I can get im to come,” Dixon said. “If MacCallister ’n Gleason ain’t leavin’ till next Monday that’ll give ’im plenty of time to get here.”

  “Why are you so sure that you will be able to get ’im?” Mitchell asked.

  “On account of ’cause me ’n him was cell mates for two years, ’n we got along real good.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Last I heard he was in North Platte, Nebraska.”

  “Wait, did you say he is in North Platte?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then that’s perfect. You don’t have to bring him here. The train to New York will be going through North Platte. He can do the job there. No way it could be connected to us or to anything that’s going on here.”

  “How we goin’ to do that?” Streeter asked. “We can’t very well send ’im a telegram a-tellin’ ’im we want’im to kill MacCallister and Gleason.”

  “No, but there is plenty of time for Dixon to go to North Platte and get there before MacCallister does. I’ll give the five hundred dollars to take with you.”

  “If I’m goin’ to be there with ’im, I’ll be takin’ part in the killin’,” Dixon said. “I know you said you didn’t want none of us involved in it, but if the killin’ happens there, they ain’t likely to connect us with it, even if I am part of it.”

  “Yes, I see your point.”

  “So it ought to be worth a thousand dollars, don’t you think? That way me ’n Slocum can split the money, five hundred dollars apiece.”

  “Why are you concerned about that? You are already making much more money than that, and by the time we are through with this job it will be worth thousands of dollars to everyone involved.”

  “You could say that it’s a bonus.”

  “What about the rest of you? Do any of you have any objections to Dixon getting extra money for doing this job?”

  “Hell, it’s fine with me,” Mitchell replied, being the only one to answer. “It’s like you said, if we don’t get MacCallister took care of, why he’s likely to mess ever’thing up.”

  The others gave their assent by nods.

  “All right. If you leave now you can be to Cheyenne in time to take the first eastbound train tomorrow.”

  “The money?”

  “Come down to the bank with me, and I’ll draw out the money. In fact I’ll give you fifteen hundred dollars. The five hundred extra is for expenses.”

  * * *

  “Hello, Mr. Poindexter,” the bank teller said. “How can I help you?”

  “Hello, Mr. Hirsh. I have to withdraw one thousand dollars from my account. Here is the draft.”

  “Yes sir,” Hirsh said, examining the draft. “It will take just a moment. I don’t keep that much cash in the drawer, and I will need Mr. Dempster’s authorization to access the vault.”

  “We’re in no hurry.”

  The two men watched as the teller approached Dempster with the draft. Dempster nodded, went to the vault, then came to the teller’s window to personally hand over the money.

  “Mr. Poindexter, speaking as a member of this community, I can say that we are all looking forward to the arrival of the railroad. But our rural residents, our ranchers and farmers, are also valued members of our community. And if the railroad breaks them, what good will it do us?”

  “I understand your concern, Mr. Dempster. I know that some of what we have been doing may have caused some difficulty but, unfortunately it had to be done.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Poindexter, the C and FL can be more judicious in any future land acquisitions?” Dempster suggested.

  “I shall
take your concerns under advisement, Mr. Dempster.”

  * * *

  It was just after dark the next day when Dixon stepped down from the train in North Platte. He had no address for Grant Slocum, but there were eight saloons in town, so he knew where to start.

  He found him in the fifth saloon he checked. Slocum was standing at the far end of the bar staring into an almost empty mug of beer. Dixon stepped up to the opposite end of the bar.

  “What’ll you have?” asked the bartender, a thin man wearing a shirt with red and white vertical stripes. He had a small, well-trimmed moustache and dark, slicked-back hair.

  “I’ll have a beer, and I would like to buy a beer for the feller down there in the green shirt.”

  “You want to buy him a beer?” the bartender asked, surprised by the request.

  “You have a problem with that?” Dixon asked, his voice a caustic challenge.

  “No, no, I don’t have any problem with it, mister. I was just wantin’ to make sure I heard it right, as all.”

  “When you give him the beer, I want you to tell ’im who bought it for him.”

  “How can I do that when I don’t even know your name?”

  “He knows my name. You just point me out to him. Bring me my beer first.”

  A moment later, with his beer in front of him, Dixon watched as the bartender put the beer in front of Slocum and turned to point toward him. Slocum looked up in confusion at first, then, when he saw Dixon he smiled and held up his beer.

  Dixon started toward an empty table, signaling for Slocum to join him.

  “Clete Dixon,” Slocum said as he sat at the table. “What brings you to North Platte?”

  “You do. You bring me to North Platte. How would you like to make five hundred dollars?”

  “Who do I have to kill?” It wasn’t an offhand response. Slocum fully expected to have to kill someone to earn that kind of money.

  “Two people, not just one. But I intend to help.”

  “You ain’t told me who they are.”