Journey into Violence (10 page)

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

“How many big men are there in Dodge right now?” Frank already knew what the answer would be and Trace Kerrigan supplied it.

“A lot, I reckon.” He winced as Kate dabbed something that stung on the bullet burn across his shoulders. “And plenty with fifty dollars to pay for a killing.”

“Trace, I'm still alive,” Kate said.

Trace grimaced. “Well, I mean attempted killing.”

Kate said, “Frank, if the man you shot—”

“Adam Cook,” said Frank, going out of his way to say the name.

“Yes, Adam Cook. He really made an effort to say
big man,
don't you think? Why would he use his dying breath to say that unless the man who paid him was, well . . . exceptionally big?”

“More than a few of those in town, Kate,” Frank said.

“Then that's where our investigation must begin. When we find the big man we will solve the mystery of Sarah Hollis's murder and the attempt on my life. I was getting too close to the truth and he panicked. He may panic again.”

“Kate, Hinkle is set on hanging Hank Lowery,” Frank said. “We can expect no help from him.”

“No, but we can expect his help to find the man who tried to kill me. My son came within an inch of dying tonight. That ought to spur Sheriff Hinkle into action.”

Frank smiled. “You'll be setting spurs to a dead horse, Kate.”

“No, I won't. I will make my voice heard and force Hinkle to do his job. He won't hang an innocent man on my watch, Frank.”

Trace flexed his muscular young shoulders. “Damn, that hurts.”

“I know it hurts, Trace, but we will have no profanity. Leave Frank to handle that side of the business since he does it so very well.” Kate picked up the calico kitten. “Isn't that so, snookums?” The little animal purred and kneaded the front of Kate's dress.

“Snookums? Is that what you plan to call the cat?” Frank said.

“No. I thought Gertrude, but I haven't made up my mind yet.”

“Back home we have a barn full of cats,” Trace said.

“But none of them is a calico,” Kate said. “Do you know what they call calicos? Well, I'll tell you. They're called money cats because they attract good financial fortune to your home.”

“Cats make me sneeze,” Frank said. “I think I'll turn in, Kate. It's been a long day and a longer night.”

She looked up. “Killing that man is wearing on you. Isn't it, Frank?”

“Seems like. He was a rube. He knew nothing about gun fighting.”

“He was a rube who tried his best to kill me, Frank . . . and you,” she said. “Just look at Trace's back . . . another inch . . .”

“Yeah, I know. But killing a man like him—a pumpkin roller—doesn't set right with me.”

“A killing never sets right with any normal person,” Kate said. “And I speak from experience. Frank, tonight I'll say a rosary for the soul of Adam Cook, and I'll say one for you, too.”

Frank, not a churchgoing man, seemed a little taken aback by Kate's piety and Trace stepped into the awkward silence that followed. “Frank, before you turn in, I have an idea.”

“We can use all the ideas we can get,” Frank said, jumping on the young man's words. He seemed glad to talk.

“Well, it's more of a suggestion than an idea.”

“Then let's hear it.”

“The only one of us from the KK ranch who has seen anything of the town is Hank Lowery. Maybe we should ask him if he saw any exceptionally big men . . .” Realizing how weak that sounded, Trace's voice petered out into a whisper. “I mean in the saloons.”

“He saw a tin man,” Frank said, smiling. “He was big.”

Kate said, “Frank, don't tease. Trace is right. We should talk to Hank. I know it's a long shot, but we're all here and willing enough to clutch at straws.

“Hinkle is the one to talk to,” Frank said. “But I don't think he's much inclined to help Lowery escape the noose.”

“When we question Hank we'll also talk to the sheriff,” Kate said. “Who knows, between them both we might learn something.”

“Like you said, Kate, clutching at straws.”

Kate nodded, her lovely face unnaturally pale and still. “Yes, a wispy little straw . . . all that stands between Hank Lowery and the gallows.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

“There hasn't been a whore murder in Dodge for the past three years,” Sheriff George Hinkle said. “Now I got two in the same week.”

“George, why am I here?” Bat Masterson said.

“Because I need your help.”

“You beat me out for sheriff in the last election and I hold a grudge forever,” Bat said. “Nobody ever tell you that? Why should I help you?”

“Because I'm a politician, not a lawman like you, and I'm not gun handy. I need your help, Bat. Want me to put it in writing?”

“It wouldn't be a bad idea, at that. Hey, good citizens of Dodge, the man you elected sheriff now needs help from the man he defeated. That would look real good in the newspapers.”

“Then do you want me to beg?” Hinkle said.

“No, I guess not. I can't stand to see a grown man cry. I'll help you, George, but only until the cards start to fall my way again. I've been trying to outrun a losing streak since Luke Short quit town and took my luck with him.” Bat wore a bowler hat, a caped Inverness coat over his long nightshirt and carpet slippers. It was two in the morning and Hinkle had wakened him from a sound sleep. Bat turned and said to an older man who wore a deputy's star, “Bring the lamp closer.”

In flickering amber light that cast shadows in the corners of Alva Cranley's tiny room, Bat Masterson lifted the dead woman's skirt and petticoats. “Rape wasn't the reason she was strangled. She's still wearing her drawers and her corset is laced. How was the other girl killed?”

“Knife,” Hinkle felt no need to elaborate.

“Was she raped?”

“I don't think so.”

“You should determine these things.”

“Sarah Hollis was a harlot.”

“What was the state of her clothing?”

Hinkle nodded to Alva's body. “Like hers.”

“You told me you'd arrested somebody for Sarah Hollis's murder,” Bat said.

“Yeah. I aim to hang him for Sarah's murder. Man by the name of Hank Lowery. Remember the Longdale Massacre?”

Bat nodded. “I've heard of that. He handled himself well if it's the same Lowery.”

“It is.”

“Did he escape from your jail, George?”

“Nope. He's still there.”

“Then Lowery didn't kill Alva Cranley,” Bat said.

“No, I guess not . . .” Hinkle didn't sound like he was sure of anything.

“Maybe the man who murdered Sarah Hollis also killed this woman.”

“I don't think so.”

“You asked for my help, George.”

“I know I did, but Hank Lowery killed Sarah Hollis and there's an end to it. I told the same thing to that Kate Kerrigan woman. She thinks he's innocent and says she aims to prove it. ”

“I heard some cowboys in the Long Branch talking about her earlier tonight,” Bat said. “Seems she's a rancher and somebody took a shot at her and hit her son.”

“Before he died, a rube by the name of Adam Cook said he was paid fifty dollars to kill Mrs. Kerrigan. Her son was burned by the bullet intended for her but his wound is nothing serious.”

“Did you kill Cook?”

“No. Mrs. Kerrigan's
segundo
done for him. A man named Cobb.”

“Would that be Frank Cobb out of the Texas Brazos Valley country?”

“His name is Frank. That's all I know about him.”

“If he's Brazos Frank Cobb he ran with some wild ones back in the day.”

“He's a hand with a gun. I can tell you that much.”

“Did Kate Kerrigan let it be known that she thinks Hank Lowery is an innocent man?”

“Let it be known? Hell, Bat, she was here while the impression of Sarah's body still lay on the bed. She said she plans to find the girl's real killer. Mrs. Kerrigan is a strong-willed woman, and by now I reckon everybody in Dodge knows that she's on the scout. Her and her son and Frank Cobb.”

“Don't you think it strange that an attempt would be made on Mrs. Kerrigan's life right after she announces to the world that she's planning to find Sarah Hollis's killer?”

“Bat, it was a coincidence. You know Texans. They're born to the feud. Some other rancher may have it in for her and paid the rube to do his dirty work.”

A rising wind rustled around the cabin. The lamp flame fluttered and caused the dark shadows of the two men to move back and forth on the wall. Somewhere a door banged and a dog barked once and then fell silent.

“You're a hardheaded man, George,” Bat said. “You got your heart set on hanging Hank Lowery and nothing will make you change your mind.”

“Evidence will. I mean when real, tangible evidence is presented to me that the murder was done by somebody else or a person or persons unknown.”

Outside, footsteps crunched on the gravel path and then stopped.

Hinkle and Bat exchanged glances.

“Give me your gun,” Bat said.

“You don't carry one?”

“Hell, man, I'm in my nightshirt.”

Hinkle passed over his Colt, a large revolver with rubber grips and a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. The barrel and cylinder were specked all over with rust.

“Don't you ever clean this thing?” Bat said. “How old is the ammunition?”

“I don't know. Maybe a couple years.”

“Damned politician. How did you ever beat me in the election? It's a mystery known only to the citizens of Dodge and God.” Bat swung open the cabin door and rushed quickly outside, the Colt up and ready. In the gloom, he saw a man rapidly walk away from him.

“Hey you!” Bat yelled. “Hold up there!” Barely visible, the man turned and snapped off a shot, his gun flaring in darkness. Bat heard the bullet
zzzip
an inch past his head.

Sweet Jesus! The ranny could shoot.

Bat did not return fire. He'd be shooting into Front Street where the late-night sporting crowd still walked. He watched the man disappear into the darkness.

Hinkle stepped beside Bat. “Are you hurt? Did he get a bullet into you?”

“He missed. Just missed.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Too dark. But he can shoot, I can tell you that. He scared the hell out of me. Here, take your gun. Damn thing probably wouldn't have worked anyway.”

“Who was that man?” Hinkle said. “What was he doing here?”

“George, I'd say it was the feller who murdered Alva Cranley and probably the one who murdered Sarah Hollis. I know you don't want to hear that, but it's what I think.”

“Where do we go from here?” Hinkle said miserably, a man who knew he was way out of his depth.

“Me, I'm going back to bed. You're going to clean and oil your revolver and load it with new ammunition. And leave an empty chamber under the hammer, George. Less chance of shooting off your damn toes that way.”

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

Kate and Frank entered the sheriff's office. Sheriff George T. Hinkle, sitting behind his desk, said, “Alva Cranley was murdered last night. Strangled. I think her killer took a pot at Bat Masterson out there in the lane.”

“Masterson get hurt?” Frank Cobb asked.

“No. But he says the bullet came close enough to scare the hell out of him.”

“The man who killed Alva also murdered Sarah Hollis,” Kate said. “Sheriff Hinkle, that fact will be the basis for your new line of investigation, and you must act quickly.”

“Mrs. Kerrigan, Hank Lowery was found in Sarah's shack, the bloody knife that killed her in his hand,” Hinkle said. “You know what that is? I'll tell you. It's a fact, and facts are what get a man hung.”

“Sheriff, I'm getting extremely irritated with your pigheadedness,” Kate said.

“And I with yours, madam.”

“The murderer who killed the two women also paid an assassin to kill me,” Kate said. “That fact should be obvious to even the most dense of men.”

Frank saw Hinkle's face redden and he stepped in to calm the situation. “Sheriff, I have a question for you. Adam Cook told us a big man paid him to kill Mrs. Kerrigan. How many really big men are in town?”

“Dozens.” Hinkle still glared at Kate. “Some of them beef-fed Texas boys grow to size.”

“How about permanent residents?” Frank said.

“Well, there's Reuben Mattock—”

“Write this down in your tally book, Frank,” Kate said.

“There's Reuben Mattock,” Hinkle said as though Kate hadn't spoken. “He owns the Cake and Cookie Bakery. Reuben probably dresses out at around four hundred pounds.”

“How tall is he?” Frank said.

“Not tall. He's just fat.”

“Not quite what we had in mind,” Kate said. “Is there anyone else?”

“Tom Bender the blacksmith is big. So is Harry Cord, who owns the lumber company, and then there's the Methodist parson Lafayette Hooks. He stands maybe five inches over six feet, but he's as skinny as the shadow of a barbed-wire fence.”

“To the best of your knowledge, do any of these men regularly seek the company of loose women?” Frank could have said it in plainer English, but Kate might disapprove.

“Bender and Cord are both God-fearing family men,” Hinkle said. “I don't know about Parson Hooks, but he's walking out with Miss Maude Depham, the piano teacher. Maude reads scripture every day, drinks prune juice, and she and Hooks are reckoned to be a perfectly suited couple. I doubt the parson chases after fancy women.”

“Not much to go on, is there?” Kate said.

“Best I can do, Mrs. Kerrigan. That's all the big men I know.” Hinkle smiled. “With the exception of Mr. Cobb here.”

Kate looked at her
segundo
. “Do you wish to assassinate me, Frank?”

He shook his head. “Never even crossed my mind.”

“Well, there you have it, Sheriff Hinkle. Now I'll talk to Mr. Lowery, if you please. Did you get him his cigars and some books?”

“The best five-cent cigars in town, Mrs. Kerrigan. And some works of Sir Woody Scott.”

“Sir Walter Scott,” Kate said.

“Yeah,” Hinkle said, brightening. “That's the feller.”

* * *

Standing outside the cell, Kate and Frank told Hank Lowery about the murder of Alva Cranley and the attempt on Kate's life.

“All we know is that a big man wanted Kate dead,” Frank said. “Do you recollect seeing any really big men in town before you were arrested?”

Lowery shook his head. “I saw a lot of big men, but didn't pay them much mind.” Suddenly, a stored memory gleamed in his eyes. “Wait. I did see a tall, well-built man. His name is Maddox Franklin and he's the owner of the Top Hat.” Lowery shrugged. “But why would Maddox be involved with a gal on the line? Seems to me he has all the women he wants right there in his saloon.”

“He's worth talking to, though,” Kate said. “He's obviously around women a lot.”

Hank Lowery shook his head. “Mrs. Kerrigan, you're flogging a dead horse. Hinkle means to hang me. He's made that clear, and I have nothing to bargain with.”

Frank said, “If it's any consolation, Lowery, when Hinkle hangs you, I think he'll have strung up the wrong man.”

“Well, I'll hold on to that. Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.

* * *

Only a handful of customers were in the Top Hat when Kate swept inside and demanded to see the proprietor, Maddox Franklin.

The duty bartender polished a glass and laid it on the gantry behind him before he answered. “Mr. Franklin never gets up before dusk, ma'am.” He looked Kate up and down and added, “If you want a job, go talk to Caddy Early in the booth over there by the stage. She does Mr. Franklin's hiring.”

To Frank's surprise Kate showed no offense.

“Not that I wouldn't be good at it, but I'm not here to find a job. I need a few questions answered.”

“Then ask away,” the bartender said, picking up another glass. “It ain't like I'm real busy or nothing.”

“What is your name?” Kate said.

“Ed Fetter. What's yours?”

“Kate Kerrigan.”

“Sure you don't want to work here? You'd look kinda cute in one of them little top hats.”

“I am not here to discuss millinery, Mr. Fetter, though it's a subject dear to my heart. Now answer this and please be frank. Does Mr. Maddox Franklin avail himself of the services of prostitutes?”

Fetter lifted the glass he was polishing to the light and studied it closely before he answered. “Look around you, lady. What do you think this place is? A nunnery?”

“Let me rephrase what I said, Mr. Fetter: Did Mr. Franklin ever visit a prostitute by the name of Sarah Hollis?”

“No.”

“You seem very certain.”

“I am certain.”

“Tell me why. Come now, don't be reticent.”

Fetter exchanged glances with Frank and thought he saw a shadow of sympathy in the big man's eyes. “Mrs. Kerrigan, Sarah Hollis would come in here some nights when her business was slow. I liked her and didn't charge her for drinks or the crackers and cheese we put out on the bar. She had been pretty once but not any longer. Laudanum had aged her and one time she told me that a client had introduced her to opium smoking.”

Fetter leaned across the bar, closer to Kate. “Mrs. Kerrigan, Sarah Hollis worked the line. Her next step down, and she could only go lower, would be a hog farm. After that, she'd die. Laudanum could kill her or she'd kill herself.” The bartender straightened. “Mr. Franklin will take in at least ten thousand dollars tonight. Men like him don't use line girls. Now, does that answer your question?”

“Perhaps, but it leads to another question, Mr. Fetter. What kind of men frequent the line shacks?”

“All kinds, but mainly down-and-outs, the dirty and diseased, the scum of the earth with two dollars to spend. There are others—men who like to use and abuse women. I think Sarah knew one or two of them judging by her face.”

“Oh dear God, the poor woman,” Kate said.

Fetter nodded. “Sarah had a hard life, Mrs. Kerrigan. She sure didn't deserve the end she got. I'm all done talking about her.” He called out to a passing waiter. “Hey, Andy, bring me some rum and a few bottles of champagne for the flips. Here, I'll help you . . .” And then he was gone.

Kate looked at Frank as though she expected him to throw her a lifeline. But there was none forthcoming, forcing her to ask, “Well, Frank, where do we go from here?”

“Back to the hotel, I guess, and check on the invalid.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant, Kate, and the answer is that I've no idea.”

“We need to come up with something if we're to save Hank Lowery.”

“We could always bust him out of jail and light a shuck for Texas.” He saw the frown on Kate's face and said, “All right, that was a bad idea.”

“No, it's not a bad idea and I'm taking it seriously. If worse comes to worst I may be tempted to try it.”

“Hinkle would send out wires and the moment we left the Indian Territory and crossed the Canadian we'd find ourselves up to our armpits in Texas Rangers. Lowery would still get hung, and we'd face years in a federal penitentiary.”

“You don't paint a pretty picture, Frank.”

“You're right. It's not a pretty picture, but it's the truth.”