A Dangerous Man (10 page)

No matter the weather, be it the heat of summer or the cold of winter, Miss Angela Davenport made a weekly visit to the grave of her dear mama. Sarah Davenport had died five years before, smitten by a cancer that had ravaged her body and killed her before her time, poor thing.

She had left her hat shop to her daughter and with it an entry into the middle class. Angela enjoyed an income of a full 900 dollars a year as befitted a spinster lady of genteel status.

She was a thin, some would say scrawny, woman in her early forties with brown eyes, brown hair, and a prim mouth. She had never lain with a man and had long since reconciled herself to the fact that she never would.

Donning her coat, hat, woolen gloves, and a stout pair of leather boots, Angela picked up her prayer book and stepped outside into the cold, windy morning. She carefully locked the front door of her house and tested the handle several times before embarking on her journey.

The walk up the slope to the cemetery was always a chore, but she didn't mind, not when Mama expected her weekly visit. Angela bent her head against wind and sleet, and trudged to the cemetery gate.

A previous mayor had encouraged burial in aboveground tombs, but Angela did not approve. It was a foreign concept, begun in New Orleans, and it smacked of popery, a religion of which she vigorously disapproved.

No, her dear mama was buried six feet under as a good Christian should be.

Her mother's grave lay to the right of the gate, under a piñon that marked the spot just as surely as the marble gravestone Angela had set up. She brushed snow off the top of the stone, opened her prayer book, and her lips began to move in a soft whisper.

After ten minutes, she became exceedingly cold as the sleet fell more heavily.

After the murders were discovered, the mayor had ordered proper burials for Sheriff Harm and his helpers. Crow Wallace was also buried properly.

Angela walked to the north end of the cemetery, through a wind that alternately sighed and shrieked like the voices of the damned. A sound she found most distressing. Through the slanting sleet she saw what looked like fresh graves just a few yards in front of her.

Dear Sheriff Harm. She was sure he would appreciate her prayers. He'd always been such a nice man, a Methodist to be sure, but she never held that against him.

She stepped closer to the graves....

Angela Davenport's eyes almost popped out of her head.

And she screamed . . . and screamed . . . and screamed
....

 

 

“Doc Harvey gave her a sedative and my daughter is with her,” Mayor John York said. “She's had a terrible shock.”

“That's why you came to see me, to tell me the graves were empty?” Tam Sullivan asked. “What business is that of mine?”

“No, I came to talk to you about the death of Tom Archer. But don't you think it strange that four recently buried corpses are missing, including that of Crow Wallace? Surely that interests you.”

“Coyotes maybe? It's winter. Hard times for coyotes and the like.”

“All those men were buried deep,” York said. “And there's no trace of the bodies. Coyotes would have scattered their bones all over the place.”

“It's strange, Mayor, I'll grant you that. If it isn't coyotes then I don't know what to make of it.” Sullivan sat at a table in the restaurant with York.

The mayor was a worried man and it showed in the struggle to get his coffee cup to his mouth without spilling. “Buck Bowman, the bartender, says Tom Archer's death was murder.” He set the hopelessly shaking cup back on the table.

“Well, he saw it, just like I did, and he called it,” Sullivan said.

“What do you think?” York asked.

“Archer hadn't been notified. So the way things turned out, he'd no chance.”

“Then Bill Longley murdered him?”

“Archer was wearing a gun, Mayor.”

“Does that make his murder legal?”

“No, I guess not. But a jury would say he had an even chance.”

York sighed. “Tom Archer's death, the stolen bodies, all this Indian talk . . . Comanche Creek could soon fall apart.”

“Bill Longley is a big part of your problem. And it will get worse. Do you know that Booker Tate plans to marry your daughter?”

York's face registered shock. “Why, that's preposterous! She's never even met the man.”

“I think Booker plans on making her acquaintance real soon. He and Longley are set on a Christmas Eve wedding.”

“Over my dead body,” York said emphatically.

“I'm sure Bill Longley can arrange that,” Sullivan said dryly.

York's rugged face seemed to dissolve and his bottom lip trembled. “Oh my God, Sullivan, what can I do?”

“The short answer is to put the run on Longley and Booker.” The bounty hunter grabbed the attention of the waitress. “Ida Mae, can I have more coffee here, please.”

York waited until she refilled Sullivan's cup then said, “We already have a widow and three orphans. My daughter . . . Lisa . . . says this town can't afford any more.”

“Go up against Longley and there will be widows all right. The man's got a yellow streak, but when his back is to the wall, he'll fight. So will Booker Tate.”

York shook his head. “I can't take that chance on more deaths. My town is already teetering on the brink. Can I buy them off?”

“Yeah, with every last cent that's in the bank. And maybe that won't be enough.”

“A loss like that would ruin practically everybody in this town, including myself,” York said.

“Better to be broke than dead.”

York's face was stiff. “That was a cold, heartless, uncaring thing to say, Sullivan.”

“It's been my experience that this is a cold, heartless, uncaring world. I don't owe this town a damned thing, so it's all up to you. Either gun Longley or you pay him. The choice is simple.”

“And what about you? Will you just stand aside like you did in the saloon last night?”

Sullivan didn't like that statement much. “Mayor, I'm only passing through. Get that into your head, huh? I wasn't Tom Archer's nursemaid. He should have gone home when he had the chance.”

“Longley would have followed him there,” York said, getting to his feet.

Sullivan said nothing, taking time to light a cigar.

“You know, Sullivan, I intended to offer you the sheriff's star.”

“Keep it. I'm not a lawman,” Sullivan said.

York looked down on him. “Maybe it's time to prove that you're any kind of a man.”

It was, Ebenezer T. Posey decided, terrible weather for travel. But then, alarmed by his treachery, he quickly amended the thought to include
but the business of the Butterfield Stage Company must always take precedence over his own discomfort.

The temporary inconvenience of a freezing, bumpy stage ride took second place to the greater whole of his employer's well-being and prosperity.

Thus did Posey, huddled into an oversized bearskin coat, journey to Comanche Crossing, a town on the benighted edge of nowhere, to identify the body of Mr. Crow Wallace, recently deceased. And also to make the acquaintance of one Mr. Tam Sullivan, the gent who'd rendered Mr. Wallace that way.

Safely tucked away in Posey's carpetbag were several items. Thirty-six hundred in Yankee dollars, a contract giving Mr. Sullivan ten percent of the monies recovered from the stage robbery, and a wanted poster displaying Mr. Wallace's image and likeness.

Once the body was identified and the transaction completed Posey would waste no time returning to Santa Fe and the bosom of his family.

On that happy thought, he glanced out the jolting window into the gray day. Rank on rank of massive black clouds hung over the mountains to the west and portended nothing but more snow, ice, wind, and suffering. He shivered and drew his coat closer around him. The fare of the last stage station, fried salt pork and beans, had settled in his belly like lead.

The Butterfield coach, a special charter provided for Posey alone, rattled along a rutted wagon road amid lightly falling snow. Buttressing the trail on each side were high, limestone ridges. Their crests were sparsely treed but the bottoms were thick with timber, meadows showing among the pines like green scum ponds.

Posey felt the stage jolt, then clatter to a jangling halt.

The Butterfield stage line did not put much value on the life of a junior clerk, but they set store by the money he carried and the amount he would bring back upon his return. Therefore the stage carried a shotgun guard in addition to the driver.

Big Jim Lloyd's two hundred and fifty pound bulk caused the stage to slant to one side and creak in protest as he climbed down from the seat and stepped to the window.

“Is there something wrong with the coach, Mr. Lloyd?” Posey asked.

“Nothing wrong with the coach, Mr. Posey, but there's plenty wrong with the landscape. It's got Apaches on it.”

Ebenezer Posey, a small, perpetually frightened man, clutched at his throat. “Oh, my poor wife. How will she cope?”

“Worry about your own hair, not hers.” Lloyd had heavy features and the broken-veined skin of a drinker.

“Where are the savages? Oh dear me, not too close, I trust.”

“Somewhere right ahead of us. Do you have a gun?”

“Oh my, no. Mrs. Posey would never allow a firearm in the house.”

“Here, take this.” Lloyd pulled a large blue revolver from his waistband.

“How do I shoot it?” Posey held the Colt gingerly, as though it might bite him.

“Just pull back the hammer and squeeze the trigger. Make sure the muzzle—that part right there with the hole in it—is against your temple.”

Horrified, Posey said, “My dear sir, are you telling me to shoot myself?”

Lloyd nodded, then put his meaty hand on Posey's thin shoulder. “It may not come to that, Mr. Posey. But don't let yourself get taken alive. The Apaches will kill you, but it will take hours, maybe days.”

“You mean torture?” Posey squeaked, his brown eyes wide.

“Like you wouldn't believe,” Lloyd said as he stepped away from the stage.

Posey stuck his head out the window and yelled up at the box. “Driver! Mr. Dillard! Kindly turn back now! I'll come back another day.” His voice had the raven croak of a terrified man.

The driver made no answer and Posey felt the stage rock as Lloyd regained his seat.

“Right at 'em, Dillard!” Lloyd yelled. “We'll charge through 'em like Mosby at Fairfax Courthouse.”

Posey was thrown hard against the back of the seat as the stage took off, the traces rattling as the six-mule team lurched into a run.

“Oh, God help me,” Posey whispered as the first rifle shots roared.

The stage swayed drunkenly as the mules hit their pace.

Posey's already shattered nerves scraped like fingernails on a chalkboard as the firing drew closer and iron wheel rims rumbled on the frozen road.

A bullet splintered into the wood panel above his head and he shrieked as a second hit inches closer.

He heard Dillard's frenzied “
Yeeaah!”
and the
blam-blam
roar of Lloyd's scattergun. A man screamed but Posey didn't know who he was.

The mules stumbled, slowed the stage a little, then the front wheels hit something solid. Suddenly, Posey felt himself go airborne. For long seconds the stage seemed to fly, then the wheels hit the ground with a grinding crash, and Posey was thrown violently to the floor.

He untangled himself from the tentacle folds of his heavy coat, turned on his back . . . and let out an ear-piercing shriek of fright. A painted Indian rode just outside the stage, glaring at him.

The Apache urged his pony to keep pace with the door, its curtain torn away by a stray bullet, and worked the lever of a new Henry rifle.

Posey thumbed back the hammer of the Colt, shut his eyes, and shoved the big revolver out in front of him, holding the grip with both trembling hands. He fired, a massive explosion in the close confines of the stage.

Stunned, ears ringing, the little man opened his eyes and screeched.

The savage was still there!

But as Posey watched, the Apache slowly bent over, lost ground, and disappeared from view.

In a highly emotional state that went beyond terror, Posey regained his seat and cringed in the corner. Bullets splintered through the stage and up on the box, the driver roared and cursed at his mules as though he was an Apache himself.

Driven to distraction by dread, the little man stuck his head out of the window and yelled, “Mr. Dillard! Surrender at once!”

The wind tore away his words and they went unheard. Ahead of him was a tunnel of cartwheeling snow and behind . . .

“Oh, merciful God!” Posey whispered.

Galloping Apaches fired on the stage. They were all around him, whooping and hollering, demented demons in the wind.

His eyes like dollar coins, Posey clutched at his seat as the stage suddenly rocked. He heard Dillard call out, but because of his gun-deafened ears he didn't catch the words.

An Indian, the lower part of his face painted black, rode close to the stage, but Posey didn't dare shoot again. The noise of the revolver going off was too loud, and why antagonize the savages when they might soon make him their prisoner?

But as the stage rocked wildly again, creaking on its leather through braces, Ebenezer Posey had the feeling that no matter how things turned out, this was going to be a rainy day in his life.

To his shock, a mule, still in remnants of its traces, trotted past his window, heading away from the coach. And then he saw another one on the opposite side, an arrow protruding from its neck.

It all made him more afraid.

For several minutes the stage continued its breakneck pace, but then he heard what sounded like Lloyd's voice yelling the team to a halt.

The coach slowed, stopped, and a man's voice—it was Lloyd's—called out, “You all right down there?”

“I believe so,” Posey said, quite shaken. “Where are the savages?”

Lloyd stepped down from the box and stood at the window. “I cut out the pair of lead mules. I guess them Apaches were hungry because they gave up and went after the animals.”

“Oh dear, wasn't that terribly dangerous?” Posey asked as he gained some strength.

“Cutting out the mules? Yeah. But not near as dangerous as Apaches. You winged one, you know. Saw it with my own two eyes. Good for you, Mr. Posey. You got sand.”

“I discharged the weapon, yes, but—”

“The Butterfield stage line is gonna be right proud of you,” Lloyd said. “Hell, man, you're a hero.”

Posey saw that the right side of the big man's face was spattered with blood, and some specks of white that looked like tiny pieces of eggshell. “Mr. Lloyd, you're wounded.”

The guard touched his face and his fingertips came away bloody. He stared at them for a long time, surprised, then said, “Nah, this is Deke Dillard's blood. Got his lower jaw blowed off, beard an' all.”

“Is he . . . dead?”

“Yup, dead as he's ever gonna be. Lucky fer him. Now help me get him into the coach. We can't leave him up on the box. He ain't a Christian sight, if you catch my drift.”

“Oh dear,” Posey said, shrinking back. “I don't think I can.”

“Sure you can,” Lloyd grinned. “A fearless Indian fighter like you.”

The little man would have made further objections, but Lloyd grabbed him by the collar of his coat and, none too gently, hauled him out of the door. “There you go, Mr. Posey. You stay right there and I'll lower poor Deke's body to you. Jes' you hold fast to him until I get down. All right?”

To Posey's horror, the stage was splintered by bullets and its rear half bristled with arrows like a porcupine. Fingers of blood, scarlet in the gloom, trickled from the box and drops ticked onto the snow-streaked ground. On all sides of him rose timbered mountains and the ebony sky draped over the entire landscape like a shroud.

Then, for a reason that he would later not fathom, he said, “How many savages did we . . . um . . . kill, Mr. Lloyd?”

“Well, you winged one, I'm sure of that.”

“And you?”

Lloyd shook his head. “Apaches know what a scattergun does to a man. They never came close enough for me to get off a decent shot.”

“So poor Mr. Dillard was the only fatal casualty?”

“Seems like,” Lloyd said. “Now, let's get him down.”

“I'll say a prayer for him.” Posey bowed his head.

“Sure. Once we get him in the stage, you can do all the prayin' you want.”

“Will the savages come back?”

“Hell, no. They'll fill their bellies with mule meat then crawl into a hollow log somewhere an' sleep away the rest of the winter.”

“Oh dear,” Posey said. “How very uncomfortable.”