Bounty Hunter (9781101611975) (24 page)

Chapter 31

A
S THE BANKER ENTERED THE LOBBY OF THE
G
ALLATIN
House, the hotel's big imported German clock was banging out the five measured beats of the hour.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down to see John Blaine's widow.

“Mr. Ransdell, might I have a word?”

“Mrs. Blaine . . . I didn't see you. Good evening, ma'am.”

“Mr. Ransdell, I must speak with you. Is there somewhere that we could talk . . . privately?”

“Certainly,” Ransdell said. “Come by the bank in the morning . . . say around nine, before opening hours . . . you shall have my undivided attention.”

“I'm afraid you don't exactly understand, sir,” Leticia Blaine said in a hushed tone. “I must speak with you
now
.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm meeting Virgil Stocker for an early dinner at the moment.”

“He should hear this as well . . . I have no secrets from my husband's associates . . . May I join you?”

“Well, I . . . uhhh . . .”

“Then it's settled,” Leticia Blaine announced. “I don't see him in the dining room. When will he be coming?”

“
I
was to meet him at his private booth,” Ransdell clarified.

“Lead the way then, sir.”

Isham Ransdell was in no small way unnerved by the way that Mrs. Blaine had inserted herself into his evening plans, but politeness demanded that the widow of his former partner could not simply be dismissed and told to go away to mind her own business.

“Virgil, ummm . . . Mrs. Blaine has asked to join us,” Ransdell said as he slid back the curtain and they entered Stocker's booth. “She has a matter of pressing urgency which she would like to discuss with
both
of us.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Blaine, what a pleasant surprise,” Stocker said, standing politely.

“Thank you and good evening to you, Mr. Stocker,” she said, taking a seat at the table and seizing a napkin.

“Isham, I took the liberty of ordering a plate of oysters,” Stocker said. “I know that you like oysters . . . Can't stand them myself, but I know that you . . .”

“I
love
oysters,” Mrs. Blaine said, helping herself. “Thank you very much, sir.”

Stocker poured a glass of claret for Ransdell and offered to pour one for his late partner's widow. She nodded.

“A fine evening.” He smiled as he filled her glass and topped off his own. “No sign of snow yet, I believe.”

“None that I could see,” Leticia said, eating another oyster. Given the complexities of shipping to a location not yet reached by a railroad, oysters were rarely served here, and a prized delicacy.

Stocker offered the plate of oysters to Ransdell, who took it but did not put an oyster on his own plate.

“Now, what is the matter you wish to discuss with us?” Ransdell asked, getting to the point at hand.

“It is the matter of my husband's murderers,” she explained.

“Yes . . .”

“It has been some weeks since you engaged that bounty hunter to track them down.”

“Yes, that is correct.” Ransdell nodded.

“I may be a foolish old woman, but it seems to
me
that a great deal of time has elapsed without his return. He was, as I recall, in pursuit of these scoundrels less than two days after they ran away.”

“As I recall, that
is
correct, Mrs. Blaine,” he said.

“In that case, may I be so impertinent as to ask what is
taking so long
?”

“These things do take time,” Ransdell said in a reassuring voice. “As you recall, I
did
bring you up to date on that letter I received from Fort Benton.”

“I do recall that letter, but as I
also
recall, that communication had been postmarked less than a week after your bounty hunter departed from Gallatin City. I
further
recall that your bounty hunter was headed into Blackfeet country, and you speculated that he and the Porter boys might come to their demise in that hive of merciless savages.”

“Yes, I did,” he said cautiously.

“Have you heard anything with regard to this?”

“I
have
had reports since then.”

“And when were you planning to share these ‘reports' with
me
?” She bristled indignantly. “I
am
the widow of your own partner, sir, not just another old woman off the street.”

“The simple answer is that these are unconfirmed reports . . . which one might call hearsay.”

“And what exactly did this
hearsay
have to
say
?”

“Some travelers who were passing through from up north claimed to have seen them in Copperopolis,” Ransdell said in a confiding sort of way.

“Where on God's green earth is
Copper . . . opolis
?” Leticia Blaine replied, raising a eyebrow. “I don't believe I have heard of such a place.”

“It's located across the mountains, this side of the Little Belts, up in Meagher County,” Stocker interjected. “As you might surmise, it was once a mining town, but like so many mining towns, it withered practically to nothing after the easy ore played out. This would explain why you've never heard of it.”

“A ghost town, then?”

“Practically . . .” Stocker said.

“And what in God's name was your bounty hunter doing in this place?”

“Apparently one of the Porter boys had been injured, and medical attention was being sought,” Ransdell explained.

“
Medical attention being sought?
My husband was
murdered
by those thugs and
medical attention
is being sought?”

“That's what the reports tell us,” Ransdell said. Her rage was making both of the men more than a little nervous.

“Mr. Ransdell, I was under the impression that the Porter boys were wanted dead or alive,” she said angrily. “Is that not correct?”

Ransdell nodded.

“Why is it that your bounty hunter is wasting time to seek
medical attention
for a murderer who by all rights should be brought back to this city
dead
?”

“I do not know the answer to that,” he said. “I don't even know whether it is true that it
really was
Mr. Cole and the Porter boys who were in Copperopolis.”

“If it
is
the case, I hope that whichever of the Porter boys was sick has by now gone to follow Milton Waller to
Hades
 . . . and that your bounty hunter sees the light and brings the others back
dead
 . . . not alive.”

“Believe you me, Mrs. Blaine,” Stocker said. “My associate and I could not agree with you more that the lives of those nefarious criminals aren't worth saving for the luxury of a trial.”

“Can you . . . Is there a way to determine whether this hearsay is true?”

“In fact, Mrs. Blaine, I hope to do exactly that,” Ransdell told her with a smile. “This very morning, my right-hand man, Mr. Edward J. Olson, started north on the most likely route between Gallatin City and Copperopolis to investigate. I'm not certain what he will find, nor indeed, whether Mr. Cole and the Porter boys will be found at all, but at least we may know
something
within the next few days.”

“I certainly, hope so, Mr. Ransdell,” she said, not returning his smile.

*   *   *

T
HE PALPABLE TENSION IN THE PRIVATE BOOTH GRADUALLY
dissipated as the steaks and boiled potatoes were served and conversation turned to other topics.

Mrs. Blaine seemed visibly relieved at having unburdened herself, and the claret seemed to have somewhat lightened the mood at the table.

“Would you care for some more horseradish, Mrs. Blaine?” Ransdell said, offering her the condiment.

“Yes . . . I mean no . . . I'm afraid . . . that I am not feeling well,” she said, dropping her fork clumsily on the table.

She had suddenly gone pale and her eyes had glazed over.

“Here, take some water, madam,” Stocker suggested.

“I don't feel well . . . I feel that I am about to be . . .”

She coughed as though about to vomit, then gagged.

“Is something caught in her throat?” Ransdell asked.

As both men stood to come to her aid, Leticia Blaine began convulsing, then collapsed into a heap on the floor.

“I can't . . . breathe . . .” she gasped.

Pushing back the curtain enclosing the private booth, Virgil Stocker shouted to the head waiter. “Get a doctor! Quickly . . .
get a doctor!
”

Chapter 32

A
S THE AFTERNOON HAD SLOWLY FADED, THE SNOW HAD
come and gone. The closer they got to Gallatin City, the more traffic they met on the road. There were more wagons, and even the stagecoach headed up toward Diamond City or Helena. As they passed, people regarded this group of chained men escorted by a young woman and a bearded man with great curiosity, but no one said anything beyond exchanging simple greetings.

It was growing dark when they reached the crest of what both Bladen Cole and Hannah Ransdell knew would be the last ridge before Gallatin City. When he saw her pause and look down at the city, he ordered the others to stop and rode up to join her.

He looked at his father's pocket watch. It was close to six o'clock. The lights of the city were coming on.

“Are you ready for this?” Cole asked.

“No . . . of course not,” she said bitterly. “Could I
ever
be ready for this?”

“Guess you'll just have to take it as it comes.”

“Oh, oh,” she said suddenly.

“What?” Cole asked.

“I just saw the light in the bank come on.”

“Is that bad?”

“Actually not . . . I'd much rather this confrontation take place
there
than at home . . . with the memories of mother . . . and . . .”

Cole could see tears in her eyes.

“I understand,” Cole said, nodding toward the city below. “We'll deliver this bunch to Deputy Johnson's jail, then we'll go over to the bank and . . .”

“No,” Hannah interrupted. “I need to go to see him
alone
. I know that you will have to get your money . . . but I'll go to see him first, and I'll go alone. You won't need me with you when you deliver these people to the sheriff's office.”

“But . . .”

“Don't argue with me.” She smiled, glancing at Edward J. Olson. “You saw what happened to the last man who tried.”

“Be careful,” he said.

“I will.”

“You don't know what may happen,” he said.

“No . . . I do not,” she admitted. “I'll be covering new ground.”

“He may have more hired guns,” Cole suggested.

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “Probably, I guess . . . What a cheery thought.”

“Let me give you something,” he said.

“What?”

“It's a little something I picked up down in Green River,” he said, reaching deep into his vest pocket.

“What is that?” Hannah asked. In the gathering darkness, she could not identify the small object wrapped in dark cloth that he had in his hand.

“It's an over-and-under Remington derringer,” he said. “I got it from a man who has no further use for it. It's more discreet to carry than your rifle.”

“I'm not planning to
shoot
my own father,” she said, taking the little gun.

“Like we were saying, that which you
are
planning may involve people other than your father.”

“Okay . . . I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Is it loaded?”

“Two shots, .41-caliber.”

*   *   *

B
LADEN
C
OLE'S LONG-AWAITED RETURN TO
G
ALLATIN
C
ITY
came just past dark, so few people noticed that the procession riding into town included three horses with men fastened to their saddles and three carrying men
across
their saddles.

They paused when they reached the intersection of Main Street and Cottonwood. Down one block on the latter, there was still a light on at the sheriff's office. Two blocks away on the former, they could see the light burning inside the Gallatin City Bank and Trust.

“Wish me luck,” Hannah Ransdell said as she bade the bounty hunter good-bye. She reached for his hand, and he took it.

“Good luck . . . Stay safe,” he said.

“You too . . . Bladen,” she replied, calling him by his first name for the first time.

*   *   *

I
T WAS ALMOST SEVEN O'CLOCK WHEN
D
EPUTY—
A
CTING
Sheriff—Marcus Johnson heard someone knocking at the door of his office.

He was already in the back room, which functioned as his sleeping quarters, putting a pot on for his supper, and was ready to call it a day.

It had been a slow and quiet day, the kind that he preferred—that is, it had been until about an hour ago, when he had been summoned to the restaurant at the Gallatin House.

Poor Mrs. Blaine.

The recently widowed Mrs. Blaine had died a dramatic death on the floor of a private booth, and naturally the law must be summoned under circumstances where a clamorous demise occurs in a public place. However, the doctor, who was also summoned, ruled it a death from natural causes, so there was nothing for the lawman to do but tell the gawking onlookers that nothing could be done. You can't arrest an oyster for being tainted.

Now, back in his office, about ready to turn in for the night, Johnson was startled by the knock on the door.

“Who's there?”

“Bladen Cole . . . the bounty hunter . . . I got some wanted men for that jail of yours.”

Johnson quickly opened his door, looked at Cole and up into the face of the infamous Gideon Porter.

Weeks had passed since the murders at the Blaine house, but the crime was still on the minds of the people of Gallatin City. So too, especially for Johnson, who was there when it happened, was the murder of Sheriff John Hollin.

“You done brought back the Porter boys,” Johnson observed with satisfied wonderment. “Least one of 'em, or two, I guess, with Jimmy Goode here.”

“Enoch's tied across that horse yonder,” Cole said. “You better call the undertaker. He's started to rot. You've also got two others out there, but they're not nearly so ripe.”

“Good evening, Mr. Olson,” Johnson said, spotting Edward J. Olson sitting on his hitched horse. In the dark, he did not notice that the banker's right-hand man was chained to his saddle.

“Okay, you scum, lets dismount,” Cole said, walking first to Porter's horse. Having detached him from his saddle, he handed him off to Johnson, who happily, though roughly, escorted the defiant outlaw to a waiting cell.

“What happened to you, Jimmy Goode?” Johnson exclaimed, looking at the man's debilitating injuries.

“It's what you get for kidnapping a six-year-old,” Cole answered.

“Do tell,” the sheriff said.

Goode glanced at him mournfully and looked away as he was led to a waiting cell.

“Here's the last of 'em,” Cole said.

Having locked up both Porter and Jimmy Goode, Johnson turned back to the door, where Cole stood with Olson.

“That's Mr. Olson,” Johnson said with alarm. “You got him in
irons
!”

“Yes, I do,” Cole explained. “Meet the man who paid for the Porter boys' rampage over at the Blaine house.”

“Damn right!” Porter shouted from his cell. “He's the one, all right.”

“Mr. Olson?” Johnson asked. “But you are . . .”

“Nobody . . . none of you. Nobody understands the whole picture,” Olson said angrily.

“And he tried to shoot poor old Gideon to keep him from talking,” Cole added.

Johnson looked at Olson in disbelief and had an almost apologetic expression on his face as he closed a cell door on this erstwhile pillar of the community.

“I'll be damned if this bastard didn't try to shoot me,” Porter shouted to Johnson. “Ain't that right, Jimmy Goode?”

“Damned right for sure,” Jimmy Goode said. “Would have too, but for that Ransdell girl done whacked him . . . whacked him
hard
. I done saw it.”

“The Ransdell girl?” Johnson asked, addressing his question to Cole.

“She came out to help me round 'em up,” Cole said.

“
What?
” Johnson gasped incredulously. “Where is she now?”

“Over at the bank having words with Mr. Olson's employer,” Cole explained. “I think that she is—”

His words were interrupted by someone rapping at the door.

“Who's there?” Johnson asked.

“It's Virgil Stocker, Sheriff.”