A Dangerous Man (5 page)

Where the boardwalk stopped, the walk to the train station with its telegraph office began, a state of affairs that didn't set well with Tam Sullivan.

The station sat high above a sea of mud and put Sullivan in mind of the abandoned hulk of Noah's Ark grounded on a reef. A pair of wet, matted coyotes nosed around the mired gully where the rails should have been.

Looking for their long-gone fellow passengers, he decided.

Due to a quirk of the wind, the sleet spun in frenzied circles and a cold mist drifted down from the surrounding hills like campfire smoke.

Like a mariner plotting a course, he stood at the edge of the boardwalk and chartered his best route, using his extended right hand to point the way.

Of course there was no best route, just less bad ones.

He pulled his hat lower over his eyes, turned up the sheepskin collar of his canvas coat, and stepped off the walk. His feet squelched deep into mud and he lifted his knees high, like a Spaniard treading grapes.

Stepping carefully, Sullivan angled to his right, heading for higher ground where Ponderosa pine and clean grass prospered among scattered slabs of limestone. His plan was to follow the rise, then loop west, giving him only about a hundred yards of mud to navigate before he reached the station.

Around him lay a hostile, unforgiving wilderness of deep canyons and high mesas, the unwanted children of the Sangre De Cristo Mountains, twenty miles to the west. He was a long way from the polished brass, red velvet, and down-soft beds of the New York and Boston cathouses and gambling dens where he spent his money before heading back west again.

That tracking down dangerous and violent criminals was hardly worth a few weeks pleasure in the big eastern cities never occurred to him. For a short while, it was pleasant to move among well-mannered men and beautiful, sophisticated women in a world far removed from the mud, blood, and violence of the frontier. But even in the city, he always carried a derringer under his evening dress. A gun was an alluring mistress from whom a man couldn't bear to be parted for too long.

Sullivan reached the grassy high ground and followed the tree line north for fifty yards. Sleet ticked from the branches of the pines and the wind's cruel, serrated edge found every opening in his coat and sawed deep. He became one with the day, a drab, seemingly aimless figure slogging through a swirling, merciless tempest of slashing sleet and wolfish cold.

Numbed and stiff as he was, it took him several seconds to react to the bullet that kicked up a startled V of grass and mud at his feet.

The flat crack of a rifle sounded again.

The bullet zipped past his head and rattled into the pines as he dived for the ground and rolled, but fetched up hard against a rock.

He was still a sitting duck.

Sullivan crawled behind the rock. He got to his feet, cleared away his coat, and grabbed his Colt as he looked around for a target. Nothing moved or made a sound but for the wind and sleet. The tattered mist covered up any drift of gun smoke, but the shots had come from his left, a stretch of flat, open ground with patches of brush, cactus, and a few piñon.

He saw no sign of life, but he knew who'd tried to bushwhack him. “Bill Longley, show yourself!” he yelled.

The wind tore his words from his mouth and scattered them. The echoing silence that followed mocked him.

Sullivan holstered his revolver, but his eyes still scanned into murky distance. He tried to figure it. Maybe Longley thought his second bullet had dropped him and he'd scampered. Either that or having missed with two shots he didn't dare risk a third.

Sullivan had pegged Longley as a braggart and a bully, not a man with any true depth of morality or courage. But the bounty hunter knew the most dangerous creature on earth was a coward with a gun, and he'd already learned that it was a deadly mistake to underrate the man.

As he waited behind the rock, he remembered that a gambling acquaintance, a trail boss named Hank Rector had learned that truth the hard way. . . .

 

 

Back in the spring of 1869, Rector hired Longley as a drover, but when the herd reached the Indian Territory, the gunman eagerly sought out and killed a Choctaw boy who'd stolen a biscuit from the camp cook.

The boy was only about thirteen years old, but Longley mounted and rode him down. By the accounts of those who were there, he shoved the biscuit into the Indian boy's mouth, choking him, then put a ball into the kid's head.

Longley threw a loop on the boy's body and dragged it into camp behind his horse while he shot his revolver into the air and bragged that he was the best damned Redskin killer in the Nations.

Hank Rector, a hard-nosed but basically decent man, dragged the gunman off his horse, called him out for a murdering scoundrel, and dropped him with a crashing right to the chin. Furious, Rector challenged him to get up and take his medicine like a man. “Fists, knives, or guns. The choice is yours.”

“You go to hell,” Longley said, staying where he was in the dirt as he wiped blood off the corner of his mouth.

Rector, well known as a reliable trail boss and Christian gentleman, then told the hired man to draw what wages were owed him. “Hit the trail back to Texas as you are finished here.” He turned and walked away.

Longley yelled, “You fool. I'm damned if I will.” He drew his murderous revolver and with a vile curse, fired three balls into Rector's back.

The unfortunate trail boss immediately fell to the ground, weltering in his blood, and said to his friend John Black who kneeled by his side, “He's killed me, John. My backbone is shot through and through and I cannot long survive.”

Longley then mounted and rode around the camp, hurling curses at the dying man before he stole the contents of a moneybox kept in the chuck wagon for emergency expenses. He rode away, vowing to “kill any man stupid enough to follow me.”

Rector lingered in great pain until the following morning.

 

 

As Sullivan left the high ground and once more descended into mud, he swore to himself that he'd never repeat the mistake Hank Rector had made.

He'd never turn his back on Wild Bill Longley.

A small, wiry man wearing the blue uniform and gold-braided cap of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad stood on the station platform and watched Tam Sullivan until he was close enough to get on speaking terms. “The nine-o-twenty left an hour ago, young feller, but there's a midnight cannonball goes right through to Santa Fe if that's to your liking.”

Sullivan walked onto the platform and much to the stationmaster's chagrin stomped mud off his boots.

Isaac Loomis was in his early sixties with shrewd brown eyes and a pair of little round glasses perched on his sparrow's beak of a nose. His skin was pale, not the ghastly gray of sickness but rather the white pallor of a man who spends much of his time indoors. A silver watch chain hung across his small, rotund belly and all his brass buttons were sewn in place and shined.

“I'm here to send a wire,” Sullivan said.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“Not much call for business wires . . . or pleasure wires, either,” Loomis said, his little birdlike face tight. “Seems that the folks of Comanche Crossing don't have anything to say.” He hesitated a moment. “Can I sell you a ticket for the midnight cannonball?”

Sullivan frowned. “You don't have any rails, or haven't you noticed?”

“So you say, big feller, but the rails are there if you look hard enough. What I do got is coffee on the bile. It's for passengers, like, but since you're giving me wire business, I'll make an exception this time.”

“I'm obliged,” Sullivan said, touching his hat brim.

Loomis smiled. “You're a real polite young feller. Did you fire them two shots I heard?”

Sullivan didn't want to get into it. “Thought I saw a wolf.”

The stationmaster shook his head. “Haven't been wolves around this neck of the woods in years.”

Sullivan nodded. “I know. I was mistaken.”

“Probably a coyote. Plenty of them. But they ain't a patch on timber wolves.”

“I'd sure appreciate that coffee before I send the wire,” Sullivan said.

“Yup, it's a rip-roaring day, ain't it? Come inside and set.”

Sullivan nodded and they went inside.

Loomis poured coffee. “Give 'er a taste, young feller. See if she's to your liking.” He lit his pipe.

Sullivan was fascinated by his ceramic cup. It was big enough that it was decorated with a fine locomotive and the words,
Terre Haute & Richmond, Madison & Indianapolis, and Bellefontaine Railroads.

“Beauty, ain't it?” Loomis said. “Good railroads, them.”

“Their trains stop here, huh?” Sullivan smiled through a cloud of cigar smoke.

“Think I'm crazy, don't you, young feller?”

“As a loon,” Sullivan said.

“Well, that's what you think, but it ain't necessarily true.”

Sullivan raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“I still get paid by the Acheson, Topeka and Santa Fe, right?”

“So I heard.”

“Well then, work it out fer yourself.”

Sullivan considered the situation. “As long as they keep sending you a check, you'll go on pretending this is a real railroad station. Am I right?”

“Right as ever was. You're a smart young feller.”

“You're crazy alright, Loomis. Crazy like a fox.”

The stationmaster grinned and tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “Isaac Loomis by name, Isaac Loomis by nature, my old ma used to say.”

Sullivan let that fly over his head. “I guess I should send my wire.”

Loomis pulled a yellow pad across the table and then looked at Sullivan, pencil poised, a question on his face.

“Make it to County Sheriff, Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory.'

“Got it,” Loomis said after a while.

“Um . . .”

“You want the
um
?”

Sullivan stabbed the man with a look. “Have killed Crow Wallace and claim reward. Stop. Have recovered silver watch and six thousand dollars from Butterfield stage robbery. Stop. Please advise. Stop. Urgent. Stop.”

“Well spoke, young feller.”

“Send it right away, huh?”

“Once I know what name you want to use.”

“Tam Sullivan.”

“Tam? What kind of name is that?”

“My kind,” Sullivan said.

Loomis rose to his feet, the slip of paper in his hand, but he never made it to the wire key.

The door burst open and a young towheaded boy hurled himself inside along with a blast of cold air and sleet. “Send a wire!” he yelled.

“Who to?” Loomis said. “And slow down, younker.”

“The law,” the boy said, asthmatically gulping for breath. “Mayor York says send a wire to the law.”

“What law?” Loomis asked.

Sullivan took over. “What's your name, son?”

“Matt Hardy.”

“Tell us what's happened,” Sullivan said.

“Sheriff Harm has been shot along with Pete McPherson and Clete Miller.”

“Are they dead?” Loomis asked.

“Yeah, all three of them, up at the cemetery,” the boy said. “Shot through and through an' tossed in that outlaw's grave.”

Sullivan frowned. “Crow Wallace's grave?”

Matt shrugged. “I guess that's his name.” He looked hard at Sullivan. “You're the one that brung in the outlaw, ain't you?”

“Yeah, that would be me,” Sullivan nodded.

“Can I see your gun?” the youngster said.

“No.” Sullivan looked at the stationmaster. “Loomis, I guess now you've got two wires to send to Santa Fe.”

“Like the county sheriff is going to care about what happens in Comanche Crossing.” Loomis shook his head. “Like he's going to come all the way up here.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Sullivan grinned. “He can always take the train.”

“Well, lookee, Bill,” Booker Tate said. “The golden boy is headed our way.”

Longley's eyes went to the tall man crossing the street. “Let him come.”

“I could kill him real easy, Bill. Drop him right in the mud.”

“Later. This hick town can't handle four killings on one day.” Longley watched Tam Sullivan step onto the hotel porch and kick mud off his boots. He noticed the bounty hunter's coat was open, his Colt clear.

Longley nodded at Sullivan. “Howdy. I ain't seen you since breakfast.”

“Funny you should say that, Bill. I figure you saw me real recent.”

“Over a gun sight, like?” Longley smirked.

“That's about the size of it,” Sullivan said.

“You're talking about them two rifle shots I heard. Oh, about thirty minutes ago.”

“Yeah, them two.”

Longley shook his head like the news surprised him. “Man, if I'd taken a pot at you, I'd have needed one shot, only one.”

“Bill's right,” Tate said. “Ain't nobody better with a long gun than he is.”

“You listen to them shots, Sullivan? That's your name, right? Tam Sullivan? I got it off the hotel register.”

“Who read it for you?” Sullivan asked.

Longley smiled. “You're a funny man, Sullivan, a real hoot. You an' me are gonna give this hick town some snap.”

Sullivan quickly disagreed. “You and me aren't gonna do anything. Try to ambush me again, I'll come shooting, not jawing.”

“Damn it, I thought you were smart,” Longley said. “Didn't you listen to the shots?”

“No. I was too busy running for my life.”

Longley shook his head again. “I carry a forty-four Henry. Them shots fired at you were from a big gun, a Sharps fifty or a fifty-five sixty Spencer. A Henry don't make a big bang like that.”

“You know your rifles, huh?” Sullivan stomped more mud off his boots.

“Well, I was in the army, at least for a spell.”

“What caliber was used on Sheriff Harm?” Sullivan asked.

“I'm not catching your drift.”

“He was murdered this morning along with two other men.”

“Was that what all the stir was about?” Longley shifted on the rocker.

“This morning I saw you follow the wagon carrying Crow Wallace's body. Seems like you'd something hidden under your coat, a Henry rifle, maybe.”

Longley and Tate exchanged glances, then Tate said, “Bill likes to take a stroll of a morning. He calls it his constitutional.”

Sullivan waved a hand in the direction of the windy, sleety turmoil of the street. “In this? With a rifle?”

“Bears,” Longley answered. “I always carry a rifle when I go for a walk as protection against big, growly bears. Ain't that so, Booker?”

“You murdered the sheriff and two other men and took pots at me.” Sullivan looked Longley in the eye. “I want to hear the reason from you, not Booker.”

The bounty hunter raised a hand when Longley opened his mouth to speak. “What I can't figure out is the why of it.”

“There ain't no why of it,” Longley said. “And I'll shoot any man who accuses me of killing Harm and them other fellers.”

“I just did,” Sullivan said.

“Yeah, but Bill never shoots the village idiot,” Tate said. “He likes to keep him around fer laughs, like.”

Sullivan turned to Tate. “Booker, you're really starting to be a burr on my butt. Don't irritate me any longer, because when I get irritated bad things happen.”

“Booker means no harm,” Longley said. “Just joshing with you.”

“Joshing with me can get a man killed,” Sullivan said.

“Look at us, Sullivan,” Longley said, spreading his arms wide. “What do you see? I'll tell you what you see—just two honest, peaceful citizens who plan to winter in this town and then, come spring, ride on.”

“After you rob the bank, I imagine.”

“All righty then, maybe that's part of my plan. So now we come down to it . . . are you with us or agin us?”

“Neither, I'm standing pat.” Sullivan leaned against a pole holding up the roof.

“Then you can expect no trouble from us. Ain't that right, Bill?” Tate put in.

Sullivan said, “Don't let him speak again, Longley. I'm too close to drawing down and scattering his brains, if he's got any.”

“Booker, shut your trap. Can't you see you're getting on the gentleman's nerves?”

One fact about a sure-thing killer, if you tell him to shut the hell up he will. It's when you turn your back on him that he'll kill you.

So Tate sat in silence, took what Sullivan was dishing out and said nothing, biding his time.

“I'm taking over this town between now and the spring thaw, Sullivan,” Longley said. “You catching my drift?”

“It ain't difficult to figure out.”

“Then you stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours. Can I say fairer than that?”

“Sure. But step on my toes and I'll take a side.”

“Hell, Sullivan, there ain't no sides. You don't give a damn for this dung heap.”

“You're right about that. But if another bullet is fired in my direction, I'll come looking for you, Bill.”

“Fairer words was never spoke,” Longley said. “Ain't that right, Booker? Oh, I plum forgot, you've been struck dumb.”

Tate glared at Sullivan, the hate in his eyes a burning thing.

“Well, live and let live, I always say.” Longley stuck out a hand. “Let's shake on it, Tam.”

Sullivan stared at Longley's outstretched hand for a full second, then walked past him into the hotel.

Tate made a strange
eee, eee, eee
sound in his throat. “Bill, I want to kill that man real bad.”

Longley looked at him. “Be patient, Booker. Your time will come.”