A Dangerous Man (19 page)

“Your money is no good here, Longley. Go elsewhere.” Perry Cox stood behind the bank counter next to a frightened clerk who looked like he was about to puke.

“You're refusing my hundred dollar deposit, Cox?” Longley asked.

“If it comes from your pocket, it's bound to be tainted money,” the banker said. “I want no part of you or your deposit.”

“Uppity this morning, ain't you?” Longley's eyes looked like they'd been chipped from flint.

But, like many heavy, big-bellied men, Cox was not easily intimidated. “Longley, Tom Archer was a respected man in this town and that's why we want you out of it.”

Longley's smile was thin as the edge of a knife. “I'll go when I'm ready, Cox. Not a minute before.”

“Don't count on it,” Cox said. “We have a noose all ready for you.”

“That's been tried before. And the men who tried it are all dead.” Longley picked up his money, smirked at Cox, and barged out the door into the street.

He had no wish to pick a fight with Cox. But maybe he'd get a chance to gun the banker later. As it happened, all he'd wanted to do was scout the layout of the bank, hence the ruse of the hundred-dollar deposit.

The counter had a brass grill, but there was a door at the end of the counter that another pale clerk had opened and closed without the use of a key. That made things a lot easier.

The First Commercial Bank of Comanche Crossing was a ripe plum ready for the picking . . . and come tomorrow morning, Bill Longley intended to pick it clean.

 

 

Booker Tate had plans of his own.

He'd had women before, hog ranch whores for the most part. No decent woman would have anything to do with him and he'd forced a few to show the little gals what they were missing.

But Lisa York was in class by herself.

Since he and Bill had gone courting to the girl's house, Tate dreamed of making Lisa his wife . . . to have and to hold until death do them part.

His old idea of using the girl before she was gutted in Santa Fe was gone. He'd never cottoned to the plan anyway.

Love—starry-eyed, head-over-heels love, had taken its place—suddenly, like a thief in the night.

Standing at his hotel room window in his underwear, Tate scratched his belly and stared out at the dark, dismal street. Sleet hurtled past his window and the wind screeched like fingernails scarring the blackboard of the morning. People scurried on the boardwalks, bent over against the cold, barely taking time to greet each other.

He let out a little sigh, imagining beautiful Lisa out there, shopping basket over her arm, braving the elements to get the grub she needed for her man's supper.

He smiled. The joyful image made him very happy.

But then another vision . . . darker, bloodstained, terrifying. He saw Lisa York on a steel table, cut open and her intestines spilled over the floor. Her pretty face still and white, blue eyes wide but staring into nothingness.

Anguished, Tate plunged his face into his hands. “Make it go away,” he whispered. “Please make it go away.”

Then a great truth came to Booker Tate.

Pretty little Lisa shopping was a fantasy. But the image of Lisa lying butchered on a table was reality . . . Bill Longley and Clotilde Wainright's reality.

Tate would not allow it to happen. The girl was his and he'd let no one harm her.

He knew he couldn't face Longley's guns, but there had to be another way.

And he'd find it.

The
rap-rap
on the door made Tate reach for his gun. “Who's there?”

“It's me, Booker. Open up.”

Tate unlocked the door and opened it wide.

Bill Longley stepped inside. “Get dressed. You've got something important to do this morning.”

Tate gave the other man a blank stare.

Longley scowled.

“Damn it, man, what's wrong with you? Wake the hell up.”

Tate shook his head as though trying to clear the cobwebs. “Sorry, Bill. What is it you want?”

“That's better,” Longley said. “I want you to ride up to Lady Wainright's house and pick up the packhorse and Lisa York's mount. Then head south into the mesa country, maybe a ten-mile, and hide the animals somewhere. Make sure you pick out a landmark so you know where the hell you left them.”

“Miss Lisa won't have a horse when you grab her tonight?”

“No, she'll ride with me. She'll need the horse on the trail to Santa Fe, that's all.” Longley stepped to the window. “As to whether she'll ride the horse or be tied to it, I don't know. Have you seen the weather out there?”

Tate laid his revolver on the bedside table. “Bill, maybe we should rethink this. About Miss Lisa, I mean.”

Longley's face settled into a scowl. “It's a done deal. What is there to rethink?”

“I don't know. It just doesn't seem right to leave Miss Pretty out there to die of cold or get eaten by a wolf.”

“Listen, set your mind at rest. You can have the girl all to yourself on the trail,” Longley said. “I won't touch her. I guarantee you'll be tired of her by the time we reach Santa Fe.”

“You reckon so?” Tate asked, his bovine brain struggling with the implications of that.

“Sure you will and there will be plenty of women in Louisiana. Hell, I heard they swim naked in the Sabine, summer or winter.”

“Well, whatever you say, Bill,” Tate said. But he had no intention of letting Miss Lisa get anywhere near Louisiana, or Santa Fe for that matter.

“Good. Now get dressed,” Longley said. “Do what I told you and make sure you get back here before seven. I'm counting on you, Booker.”

“You can depend on me, Bill.” Tate knew then that he'd have to kill Bill Longley.

At seven o'clock.

“She might come in around seven o'clock,” Buck Bowman said. “But Montana Maine does what she pleases.”

“She got a special feller?” Tam Sullivan asked, making conversation.

“Naw. She plays the field. It would be impossible for just one man to pin down Montana Maine to a life of domestic bliss.”

“She must be quite a woman.”

“She is. Believe me, you haven't seen a real woman until you set eyes on Montana Maine.”

Sullivan stood at the bar eating an early lunch of crackers and blue-veined cheese.

Bowman topped off his beer. “I heard about Posey, poor little feller. I liked him.”

“So did I,” Sullivan said. “I liked him a lot.”

“I'll find out who murdered him and Hogan Strike, depend on it,” Bowman said. “And I'll arrest those responsible for the stolen bodies.”

Sullivan smiled. “You're not a detective, Buck.”

“I was a Texas Ranger. That's enough.”

“Have you ever dealt with evil before?” Sullivan asked.

“Sure. Wasn't I the Ranger who gunned White River Vic Polson? Vic was a half-breed Apache and real evil.”

“Hey, Buck, I didn't know you killed Vic Polson,” said a man standing at the far end of the bar. “I seen his body in the window of Steve Yates's hardware store down Amarillo way. He was shot all to pieces.”

“Took two loads of double-aught buck to stop him,” Bowman said. “As I recollect, Vic had a simple brother who got hung. But none of that Polson clan ever came to any good.”

The two men talked more about the Polsons, and when the conversation petered out, Sullivan said to Bowman, “Cutting a breed in half with a scattergun ain't detective work.”

Bowman shook his head, smiling. “Hell, Sullivan, I'm not catching your drift. You're not a Pinkerton yourself.”

“I know, but the killing, the stolen bodies, the evil that's descended on this town, it all ends tonight,” Sullivan said pointedly.

Bowman's face hardened, and he gave the younger man a long, stern look. “I'm the law in this town, Sullivan. If there's a summing-up to be done with a gun, I'll do it. You see how it is with me.”

“It's a reckoning, long overdue. I'll handle it.”

“You'd better tell me about it,” Bowman said.

Sullivan took a drink of his beer. “If tonight pans out like I think it will, you'll know soon enough.”

“I don't like this. I don't like this at all,” the sheriff said. “If I'm pushed to it, I'll lock you up to keep you off the street.”

“No, Buck, you're not locking me up. Not today or on any other day.”

Until that moment, Bowman had considered Tam Sullivan a bumbling fool, a wannabe hardcase obsessed by a dead man, boasting an inflated reputation he knew the man didn't deserve.

But when he looked into the sky blue hell of Sullivan's eyes he knew he was wrong.

The man was a killer.

He was another Bill Longley, saved only by a thin veneer of humanity and a respect for the law that the gunman did not possess.

Sullivan brushed away a cracker crumb from his great cavalry mustache and pushed himself away from the bar. “You still got that scattergun, Buck?”

“Sure do and she's loaded for bear.”

“Then I'll come for you when I need you,” Sullivan said.

Bowman said, “Wait. Let's talk about this.”

But Sullivan stepped toward the door and for the first time in days the spurs on his heels chimed.

Half-a-dozen men were in the saloon, but the one at the end of the bar was the most talkative. As Sullivan passed him, he said, “Hey, mister, is there really evil in Comanche Crossing, devils and ha'nts an' sich?”

“More than you know,” Sullivan answered.

He returned to his hotel room and, using .36 caliber paper cartridges, loaded the 1861 Colt Navy he'd taken from his saddlebags. He laid the revolver beside his gun belt on the bed then pulled a chair to the window.

For a while, he gazed into the storm-torn street.

On the opposite boardwalk, a plump matron wrapped in a hooded cape dragged along a small, reluctant dog. A youth stepped out of the general store holding a pair of new boots tied together by the laces. A mule-drawn wagon passed, its precious cargo of swaying Ceylon tea chests covered by a canvas tarp.

Sullivan saw but paid little heed, his mind working. He was convinced the pale, distorted face he'd glimpsed at an upper window following his visit to Clotilde Wainright was Hong-li. Man, beast, or whatever species, he was Clotilde Davenport's creature, and she knew he was likely to kill anyone who got in his way.

Maybe she didn't sanction the murders of Ebenezer Posey and Hogan Strike but she was responsible.

Sullivan was sure Hong-li had taken that pot at him on his way to the railroad station and his was the grotesque, hunchbacked form of the bushwhacker he'd winged in the graveyard. His bullet had stung the man and he would still bear a scar.

And what of Bill Longley?

He'd made his reputation as a Texas bad man by killing blacks and terrified rubes. Seemed he'd be in way over his head dealing with a cold, calculating woman like Clotilde Wainright. Unless . . . it was her . . . or one of her associates . . . who'd saved his life when he got half hung down to Karnes County.

Almost as soon as Sullivan thought it, he dismissed that possibility. Bill had been strung up for killing a black soldier and horse theft.

Sullivan continued thinking, trying to connect Longley and Lady Wainright. Why would she, an English aristocrat, go out of her way to save the life of a common criminal?

Suddenly, the answer was obvious. Because she needed him.

But not for herself. For her husband. For Dr. Cheng.

Musing on that possibility, Sullivan remembered what Buck Bowman had said about Bill Longley killing sixty or seventy men. He'd dismissed that figure as typical saloon gossip exaggeration, but suppose it was true—which raised another question . . . or two. In the past, had Longley provided freshly murdered bodies for Cheng's research . . . and was he still supplying them from the town graveyard?

Sullivan knew he was close to the answer.

A man like Longley, if he'd run out of bodies, could easily kill scores of unarmed blacks, blanket Indians, and Mexicans to supply Cheng's endless need for fresh cadavers.

That was why Clotilde Wainright had saved Longley's life—to ensure that her husband's research would not be interrupted, an activity she considered vital to the advancement of medical science.

Sullivan realized his own obsessed hunt for the last remains of Crow Wallace had blinded him to the reality of what was happening in Comanche Crossing. Unfortunately, it had taken the death of Ebenezer Posey to open his eyes.

He mentally flagellated himself for that.

Right there and then, he vowed to make amends and save what little was left of his integrity . . . and his manhood.

He shook his head and focused on the street. Still daylight.

Seven o'clock, after darkness fell.

That's when Tam Sullivan would bring about the reckoning.

Booker Tate left the packhorse and spare mount in an arroyo close to Black Mesa, the country around him wild, windswept, and achingly lonely.

He made his way back to Comanche Crossing, riding through driving snow and a day as gray as mist on a lake. Chilled to the bone, the lean cloth of his mackinaw giving him little protection, Tate thought of Miss Pretty.

She was a delicate little thing, unused to rough men and savage weather, and her chances of living through just one night on the trail were slim.

He had done what Bill had asked, he'd stashed the horses, but Lisa York would not leave Comanche Crossing, at least not that night.

His snow-spattered face grim, he knew he would have it out with Bill.

But Bill is a reasonable man. Certainly
—Tate didn't finish that thought.

Bill Longley was not a reasonable man. He was a stone cold killer and unbending. As surely as night follows day, Miss Pretty's fate would be decided by the gun.

Tate accepted that fact and understood its implications.

 

 

“Who rides out on a day like this?” Clem Weaver said, his face sour.

“I do.” Tate dismounted. “You got coffee in the pot?”

The livery man nodded. “It's on the bile. I'll get you a cup.”

“Rub down my hoss and feed him some oats as soon as I've had coffee,” Tate ordered. “And don't skimp. I want him ready to ride again in a couple hours.”

Weaver poured a smoking cup and handed it to Tate. He waited a few moments until the big man had swallowed some and thawed out a little before saying, “Your friend Longley bought Crow Wallace's hoss, paid cash on the barrelhead, too. Says he's riding tonight.”

Tate shrugged. “Bill has some strange notions sometimes and I follow along.”

“Well, rather him than me,” Weaver said. “A man could freeze to death out there on the trail, if'n the Apaches don't get him first.” The liveryman's smile was wicked. “Then a man could roast to death instead, huh?”

Tate drained his coffee cup and made no answer, his face strained and solemn.

Since the red-haired gunman seemed in no mood for small talk, Weaver said, “I'll see to your hoss.”

Still silent, Tate rose to his feet and walked out of the stable.

Two prosperous-looking men in greatcoats and mufflers stood on the boardwalk and discussed the sluggish, muddy river that was the street. As Tate passed he heard one of the men say, “Shell rock won't work.”

“Then what will?” his plump companion asked.

“I don't know. But I told the mayor we can't ever go through this again.”

“There has to be a solution.”

“Drain it like a swamp, I reckon.”

Both men laughed and walked on their separate ways.

Booker Tate heard and was deeply envious. Instead of facing death when the clock struck seven, he could be like those men, prosperous burghers discussing nothing more urgent than mud in the street. He mulled that over, his feeble brain working hard. Once he wed Miss Pretty, he could leave the violent, hunted outlaw life behind and settle down right in Comanche Crossing and perhaps turn his hand to trade. He figured he might prosper in the construction business, since even as a boy he'd been good with his hands, building things, like.

Smiling to himself, Tate considered that an excellent plan. He'd build a nice little house where Miss Pretty would be happy. It would have extry rooms for the young'uns and maybe a guest cottage for Mr. and Mrs. York when they came to visit.

The mind pictures Tate saw, all with Lisa York center stage, were bathed in a golden glow—a heavenly light that would always, miraculously, be there after he and Miss Pretty got hitched.

As he entered the hotel and his muddy boots left stains on the stair carpet, Booker Tate was madly in love, his Miss Pretty the entire focus of his being.

 

 

“So if she dies, she dies. All we have to do is deliver a body to Santa Fe. Dead or alive, it makes no difference.” Longley stared ice-hard at Tate. “Not going soft on me, are you? It's too late at this stage of the game.”

Tate was silent for a while, dredging for the right words. “Bill, I want to marry Miss Pretty.”

“Marry her! Why, she'd leave you the first chance she got, or kill you in your sleep. A girl like that isn't for a wild animal like you, Booker.”

“But you said you wanted us to get hitched, Bill. You told me that.”

“Because the thought of it amused me. Well, it doesn't amuse me any longer. We grab the York girl tonight and there's an end to it.”

“I could become a carpenter,” Tate said. “Keep Miss Pretty at home.”

“Yeah, until the night you get drunk and kill a man. Then it's all over.” Longley smirked. “Booker, you're an idiot.”

Tate's face was set and stubborn, enamored of his impossible dream.

Longley read the expression. “All right, Booker. We'll talk about this after we grab the girl. Hell, take her to Louisiana with you, marry her there.”

Tate's face brightened and he smiled. “Do you mean that, Bill?”

“Sure I mean it. I'm not going to break your heart, Booker.”
But I'm going to kill you.

“Bill, you're true blue and a white man,” Tate said.

“Hey, that's what friends are for, Booker. We'll build the girl a nice big fire in a sheltered spot come tomorrow morning, then go rob the bank. After that, we're Louisiana bound, all three of us.”

“She'll need plenty of wood if we're gone for a few hours,” Tate said.

Longley played along. “Yeah, we'll leave her a woodpile real close.”

“Dry, Bill. It's got to be dry.”

“Uh-huh. Dry wood it is.” Longley rose and stepped to the window.

The day had fled. The long night and darkness lay on Comanche Crossing. The snow had stopped, and the lighted stores on both sides of the street angled rectangles of amber light onto the boardwalks.

That was not entirely to his liking. What had to be done would be better accomplished in gloom.

But there were still two hours until seven. Many of the stores would close by then for lack of customers, especially when the snow started again as the somber night promised.

“Me and Miss Pretty could build a house right on the Sabine,” Tate said.

Without turning, Longley nodded again. “Sure thing, Booker. You and Lady Wainright could be neighbors. Lisa York would like that.”

“Lisa
Tate
, Bill. She'd be my wife by then.”

“Oh yeah. I plumb forgot.” Longley simply smiled.