A Dangerous Man (17 page)

A restless man, Bill Longley had grown tired of Comanche Crossing. The experience had not been what he'd expected and he had not taken over the town in any significant way. The presence of Tam Sullivan, a man of reputation and good with a gun, had derailed him. And tough Buck Bowman, a former Texas Ranger, also stood in his way.

“That's why we're taking Clotilde Wainright's offer,” Longley told Tate as they huddled in a secluded corner of the restaurant, drinking coffee.

“What about the girl?” Tate asked.

“The wedding's off.” Longley smiled. “She's worth more to us dead than alive.”

“I meant, when do we grab her?”

“Tonight. We'll take her to Clotilde's house and rob the bank early tomorrow morning.” Longley grinned. “Then we'll head for Santa Fe, kill Miss High-and-Mighty Lisa York, and ride for the Louisiana border after the job is done.”

“Bill, I can still get a taste, huh?” Tate begged. “I'm right partial to that little gal.”

“Sure you can, Booker. She'll be on the trail with us two, three days. Time enough for both of us to enjoy her.”

“Bill, she'll have to be ready to go after we take the bank,” Tate said.

“I'll arrange that with Clotilde today. We'll need a mount for the girl and a packhorse with some kind of shelter and supplies for three days. The rubes might chase after us, but when I threaten to scatter pretty Miss Lisa's brains, they'll keep their distance.”

Tate's thinking was slow, but he spotted a flaw. “It's thin, Bill, mighty thin. When the rubes see us pick up the girl at Lady Wainright's place, they'll burn her house down.”

“That's her problem, not mine,” Longley said.

Tate shook his head, worried. “I don't like it, Bill. There's too much can go wrong. Your plan is tight, like a hangman's noose.”

Longley was irritated at Tate's reference to hanging, a sore spot with him, but there was some logic in what the man said. “We got five days to get the girl to Santa Fe. Of course it's close. It has to be.”

“Then forget the girl,” Tate said. “We'll have the money from the bank so we don't need the lousy five hunnerd.”

Longley glanced out the window. The snow had stopped. “I owe Clotilde a favor. I must repay it. It's a reckoning.”

“Hell, Bill, she cut you down because you were supplying her with dead Mexicans and blacks.

Back then, she was making a fortune jamming stiffs in packing cases and shipping them off on the Southern Pacific Railroad.”

“Clotilde didn't make a pile of money, Booker,” Longley said. “She was trying to save the world. She still is.”

“Hell, the world ain't worth saving,” Tate said.

Longley smiled. “You got that right.” He was silent for a while, thinking.

Breakfasters came and went. He didn't notice them. Finally, he said, “All right, here's what we do.” He leaned closer to Tate. “We grab Lisa York tonight and take her to Clotilde's place where we pick up the packhorse and another mount. You understand me, Booker?”

“Yup, I got it so far, Bill.”

“Then we take her out of town and stash her someplace with the horses. Tomorrow morning after we clean out the bank, we can pick her up on the trail. The girl will be drugged, so she'll give us no trouble.”

“She could freeze to death out there,” Booker said.

“So? All the doctors want is her body. If she freezes, she'll be that much fresher.”

Tate's laugh was so loud heads turned his direction. “Damn it, Bill, but you're a smart one,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The plan ain't too tight anymore.”

“And it's payback time,” Longley said. “John York and his wife made us unwelcome in their home and subjected us to the greatest humiliation.” He grinned. “Just wait until their precious little daughter disappears.”

After Bill Longley returned to the hotel, he sat at the table in his room and composed a note. Reading it over a few times, he was satisfied it was the bait he needed to catch Lisa York.

The initials meant nothing of course, but Longley thought them a nice touch. He stuck the note in an envelope, sealed it shut, and addressed it to Miss York.

He left the room and went down to the boardwalk. Half-grown boys were always hanging around the rod and gun store across the street and he spoke to a gangly towhead who looked fairly intelligent. “Boy, do you know Miss Lisa York?

“I'll say I do. She's a real pretty lady.” The youth was spotted all over with freckles, like a bird's egg.

Longley produced the letter and held up a silver dollar. “Deliver this letter into Miss York's hand and I'll give you this.”

“You're Wild Bill Longley, ain't you?” the boy said.

“Yeah, that's me.”

“They say you've killed fifty men.”

The other boys gathered around, their eyes big.

“People say a lot of things,” Longley said. “Now, will you deliver this note like I asked you?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Longley,” the boy said. “I'll tell her it's from you.”

“No, don't tell her that,” Longley said hurriedly. “I'm planning a birthday party for Miss York and if she knows I sent her the note, it will spoil the surprise.”

One of the other boys frowned. He was a small creature with the face of a ferret. “Here, what's the deal? Miss York's birthday party was a month ago. I know because my ma was invited.”

Longley badly wanted to put a bullet into the little creep, but he smiled. “It's a late birthday party. That's why it's a big surprise.”

“I wish I could have two birthdays a year,” the ferret said.

Longley smiled and nodded.
If it were up to me you'd never have another one.

“I'll deliver the note, Mr. Longley,” the towhead said, grabbing the envelope and the dollar.

“Remember, when Miss York asks who gave it to you, just say a man you don't know. Got that?”

“Sure do, Mr. Longley.”

“Then get going.”

Longley watched the boy hurry along the boardwalk, then made his way back to the hotel. Tate was concerned about weak links. Trusting the boy to keep his mouth shut was yet another, but Longley figured he had no other choice since he couldn't very well hand the note to the girl personally.

Well, if it didn't pan out, he'd need to take more drastic measures, was all.

He stood on the porch and studied the sky. Black and iron gray clouds building from there to the mountains threatened cold and sleet and the death of the sun.

It seemed that little Miss York would spend an uncomfortable night out in the wilderness where the hunting wolves howled.

“A feller asked me to give you this, Miss York. Happy birthday!” The boy turned and ran from the door.

“Wait!” Lisa York cried.

But the youth had already vanished.

“Who is it, Lisa?” Polly York called from the parlor.

“It was the McLean boy delivering a letter.”

“We're not expecting mail delivery,” Polly said.

“It's for me, Mother. It's not mail.” Lisa closed the door and stepped into the parlor where her mother sat by the fire, knitting in her lap.

Lisa turned the envelope in her hand. “Whomever in the world could it be from?”

“There's only way to find out. Open it.”

The girl tore the envelope open and read the enclosed note.

Polly York saw the color drain from her daughter's face and rose from the chair. She lay down her knitting and rustled to Lisa's side.

Without saying a word the girl handed over the note.

Polly read it and let out a little gasp of concern. “What in the world? This is most singular.”

“Dare we choose to ignore it?” Lisa asked.

“With all the terrible things that have been happening in this town? I think not. The danger to your father's life may be of the greatest moment.”

“Who is CMW, I wonder,” Lisa said. “I don't recognize the initials.”

“I have no idea,” Polly said. “Perhaps a stranger in town, even a law officer.”

“Then I must go, Mother. I can't ignore this missive.”

“Then your father will accompany you with his revolver.”

Lisa shook her head. “The note says to come alone.”

“No, it's far too dangerous.”

“Mother, we're to meet at seven o'clock on the boardwalk, not midnight. How dangerous can it be?”

“The night is winter dark at that time and most, if not all, of the stores shutter early because of the snow,” Polly said. “You could find yourself quite alone.”

“There will still be people around, and the saloon doesn't close, remember?”

“We'll let your father decide.”

“No, don't tell him. I've no wish to worry him unnecessarily. This could be nothing, perhaps even a prank. Besides, I have the brand new Remington derringer Father gave me for my birthday. I can take care of myself.”

“Lisa, I just don't like the idea of you going alone,” Polly said, her face creased in worry. “And those two dreadful men who came to the house last night are still in town. They could—”

“If Father's life is really in danger, it's worth the risk, any risk.” Lisa insisted. She frowned and her chin was determined, signs her mother knew only too well.

“I'll worry about you the whole time you're gone,” Polly said.

Lisa smiled. “Mother, I'm a big girl now. Trust me, I'll be just fine.”

 

 

Fortified with a couple of shots of brandy from the bottle in his room, Bill Longley climbed the hill to Clotilde Wainright's mansion. As the sky had predicted, icy sleet slanted in a slashing wind and the way underfoot was slick, muddy, and treacherous.

Cheng opened the door to Longley's knock and with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm ushered the gunman into the parlor where he was joined a couple of minutes later by Clotilde.

“Not bad news, I hope.” Her beautiful eyes searched Longley's face. “Take a seat by the fire.”

“A change of plan,” the gunman said. “That's all.”

“I don't like changes of plan, Bill.”

“For your own protection, Clotilde. All I need from you is a horse for the girl to ride and another with supplies for three days, including a shelter.”

“Cheng will supply you with a canvas tarp and whatever else you need for the trail. I also have a horse for the girl.” The woman's eyes burned with green fire. “Your change of plan is for my own protection? I hardly knew you cared, Bill.”

“It's too risky to pick up the girl here,” Longley said. “There will be a hue and cry and if they see that you're involved . . . well, you know what might happen. Remember after the vigilantes hung me? Well, the Comanche Crossing vigilantes could come after you with a rope.”

“I remember the day you were hanged very well, Bill. Now tell me of your new plan.”

Irritated at the woman's memory for things he'd rather forget, Longley told her.

“You'll be busy tonight and tomorrow,” Clotilde said. “First a kidnapping and then a bank robbery. My, my.”

“Booker and me can handle it,” Longley said.

The woman handed him a glass of brandy. “Who is the girl? Or dare I ask?”

“Lisa York.”

“The mayor's pretty little daughter?”

“None other.”

Clotilde jolted back in her chair, surprised. After a few moments, she clapped her hands and then held them clasped to her breast. “Brava!” she exclaimed. “How perfectly, wonderfully droll.”

Longley grinned. “I thought you might like that, Clotilde.”

“Oh, I do! The little stuck-up baggage is an excellent subject, such a young, nubile body. Professor Van Dorn will be so pleased.”

“Clotilde, I plan to knock her out with one of Cheng's potions and hide her on the trail until we pick her up tomorrow morning. She could freeze to death overnight.”

“No matter. A little frost will keep the body fresher longer.” Clotilde nodded her permission for Longley's cigar and then she said, “This matter is of the utmost importance, Bill. I'm doing it for Professor as a personal favor.”

“You sold stiffs to him in the past?”

“A few, but none of yours. Dr. Cheng used most of those for his own study. No need to explain away the bullet holes, you see.”

“I didn't know Cheng was a real pill roller,” Longley said. “I thought you just called him Doc for some strange reason.”

“He was a quite famous surgeon in his native China. My husband and I helped Dr. Cheng obtain bodies which led to our . . . ah . . . difficulties.”

“Your husband's hanging among others,” Longley said.

“Quite,” Clotilde said, icing the word. She picked up the brandy by her chair and refilled Longley's glass.

The wind drove sleet past the windows and the ravaged morning was gloomy as night. A withered leaf fluttered against a pane like a trapped brown bird.

“Professor Van Dorn is currently writing a book that his publisher believes will be the definitive work on the female anatomy and will make him famous in this country and abroad. As part of the illustrations for his work, he will dissect the York girl's body and make a series of painstakingly
accurate
drawing of its various parts, internal and external.” Clotilde's face took on a serious expression. “Note my emphasis on the word
accurate
. To achieve such results the subject's carcass must bear not even a hint of corruption.”

Longley smiled. “So the professor is an artist as well as a doctor.”

“Is not any fine surgeon an artist? Why should you sound so surprised?”

Longley smiled. “How much artistry does it take to saw a man's leg off?”

“Bill,” Clotilde said, “how little you know.”

“Well, to sum it up—I rob the bank, take the girl to Santa Fe, and then head for your place on the Sabine.” Longley grinned. “We had good times there, Clotilde.”

“No, we didn't.” The woman rose to her feet. “I'll wrap up my business here and join you in Louisiana as soon as I can.”

“Maybe we can get back into the business again, Clotilde,” Longley said. “I can provide plenty of bodies over that way.”

“No, I'm done. Lisa York is the last and then I'll return to my fight to preserve our American Indian culture.”

“Do you think anyone will thank you for that?”

“Perhaps not. The Indians are ungrateful children, I know. But I will persevere in my endeavors. And there's one more thing before you leave.”

Longley drained his glass then stood.

Clotilde answered the question on his face. “That man Sullivan is getting way too close, as I feared he might. Hong-li tried to kill him twice and failed each time.”

Startled, Longley said, “Hong-li? Is that . . . thing still alive?”

“He's not a thing. He's a human being who left the womb not yet fully formed and, for some reason known only to the gods, grew to a monstrous size. You heard what happened in the night?”

“I heard shots. Figured somebody was taking pots at a coyote.”

“Sullivan fired those shots. My dog got too close to him. There's more.”

“Then tell it,” Longley said.

“Dr. Cheng wanted the stage coach driver's body for his own research, but he and Ransom ran into trouble. The undertaker and another man came into the office and Hong-li killed them both with the Japanese sword he carries.”

“And what does this have to do with Sullivan?”

“He was also nosing around the undertaker's place. He wants to find the body of an outlaw he killed and I believe he thinks I had something to do with its disappearance.”

Longley smiled. “And you did, Clotilde. You and Cheng did some grave robbing on your own and Crow Wallace was among them.”

“The men were dead. That's not a crime, or at least it shouldn't be. The bodies advanced Dr. Cheng's knowledge by leaps and bounds and he will use that knowledge for the good of everyone. Frank Harm, the sheriff, had a cancer in his belly and Dr. Cheng removed it. He told me if the subject had been still alive he would have survived the surgery and lived on for many years.”

“Why don't you give Crow Wallace's body to Sullivan, Clotilde?” Longley suggested.

“It's cut up and buried, like the others. Wallace, if that was the outlaw's name, would be unrecognizable by now.”

“Tam Sullivan is a bounty hunter who doesn't give a damn about anybody or anything. You've nothing to fear from him. He'll drift soon.”

“Perhaps I am overreacting, but I think you should kill him before you leave just to make sure,” Clotilde said.

Longley nodded. “I'll see what I can do. Anything else?”

“No, I think we've covered it. Just get that girl and don't fail me.”

Longley grinned. “Trust me, Clotilde. Lisa York's female parts are as good as in the professor's book already.”

“Then I'll see you in Louisiana.”

“Just like old times, huh?”

Clotilde smiled but said nothing.