Skull Moon (15 page)

It paid to be careful, particularly with a murdering beast on the loose. People tended to be quick with their guns when they heard someone or something coming.

The closer he got, still out of visual range, he could hear the steady whacking sound of an axe splitting wood. The chopping kept up as he got closer and closer, moving the black along at a slow trot over the slushy ground. He came to a small opening in the trees, a rabbit darting off into the brush.

The chopping stopped.

The world was silent.

Longtree could see the fire and a team of horses picketed near the treeline. An old mud wagon was pulled up near a small army tent. There were a few rifles leaning up against it--a Winchester and a Sharps "Big Fifty". Steel-jawed traps and pelts of every description hung from it. There was a woodpile and enough kindling to last for a week.

But there was no one in sight.

Longtree grimaced. "Rider coming in," he called out.

He stopped the black by the wagon and tethered it. He warmed his hands by the fire and looked around. He knew the owner of the camp was hiding in the trees, getting a bead on him. But the fact that he hadn't shot yet meant he probably wouldn't.

"Who are you?" a voice called out and it was familiar somehow.

It came from behind him, but the marshal didn't turn around. "Joe Longtree, deputy U.S. Marshal," he said.

He heard the man swearing as he came out of the trees. He didn't seem too happy to have the law visiting.

Longtree snaked a hand inside his coat and withdrew one of his pistols. He made no menacing moves with it, he just kept it handy, his hand on the butt.

"What the hell do you want?" a gruff voice asked.

Longtree turned very slowly.

He found himself staring at a bear of a man, his shirt open, his chest gleaming with sweat. He was bearded and carried an Army Carbine. It was pointed at Longtree's head.

"I only came to warm myself," the marshal said.

"Warm yourself somewheres else, Longtree," the man told him.

The way he said it made the marshal sure this man knew him. But from where? The voice was familiar, but nothing more. Maybe without that beard. Then it came to him. This was Jacko Gantz.

It could be no other.

Ten years ago, before Longtree was a lawman, he'd been hunting men for money. There'd been a five-hundred dollar bounty on Gantz for robbing stages in the Arizona Territory. Longtree had caught up with him at a saloon in Wickenburg after three months on his trail. There'd been some shooting. Longtree took a bullet in the shoulder, Gantz caught one in the leg and one in his gun hand.

This took the fight out of the road agent.

Longtree cuffed him and got the both of them to a doctor. Three days later, he delivered Gantz to Phoenix and placed him in the custody of Tom Rivers, then just a U.S. Marshal before his appointment to chief marshal. Gantz, after his trial, had been sentenced to ten years in the Arizona Territorial Prison at Yuma.

"When did you get out, Gantz?" Longtree asked.

Gantz kept the gun on him. "Two years ago, Longtree. I did eight long years in that fucking hellhole. Thanks to you."

Longtree's face betrayed no emotion. "I only did my job."

"Yeah, you sure did, you sonofabitch," Gantz said angrily. "Eight years of my goddamn life.
Eight years.
And what happened to you in that time, Longtree? You became a lawman, a federal marshal. How the hell did a breed like you swing that?" He laughed through clenched teeth. "Rivers got you that appointment, didn't he? He's a big wheel now, so I hear."

"I'd appreciate it, Gantz, if you'd lower that rifle."

Gantz kept it where it was. "Oh, I bet you would, Marshal, I just bet you would." His eyes never left Longtree for a moment and in them was a hatred that burned black. "I thought about you a lot in prison, Longtree. Didn't a day go by that I didn't think about killing you. And now, look what's happened? I got your sorry hide in my sights."

"Drop that weapon," Longtree said flatly.

"Or what? You gonna shoot me down unarmed like you did--"

"You weren't unarmed, Gantz. I took a bullet in the shoulder as proof of that."

"I oughta shoot you down like a sick dog," Gantz grumbled.

Longtree's eyes narrowed. "Drop your weapon, Gantz. Now. This is a U.S. Marshal ordering you to drop your weapon."

Gantz just stared at him. Longtree had his Colt aimed at the man's belly. They stood like that for a few moments, neither saying a word. Longtree squatting by the fire and Gantz standing with his carbine pointed at the marshal's head.

"You must be a real fool, Longtree," Gantz said. "Badge or no badge, I pull this trigger and I'll scatter your brains for a hundred yards."

"Maybe. But the second you shoot, so do I. And my bullet goes in your belly. And if you think you can make it down to Wolf Creek gutshot, then you're a bigger asshole than you look. You'll bleed to death long before."

"Maybe it's worth it."

Longtree raised an eyebrow and stood up very slowly. "Maybe. But even if you live, you'll spend your days as a hunted man. Killing a federal officer is a serious offense, Gantz. The law'll hound you to an early grave."

Gantz said nothing. The barrel of his carbine was still pointed at Longtree's head. He licked his lips.

"If you're gonna shoot, then shoot!" Longtree shouted in his face. "Pull that trigger, boy! Shoot, goddammit, shoot!"

Gantz looked uncertain. He lowered the carbine, smiling. "Never said I was going to."

Longtree made like he was going to holster his pistol and then brought it up in a vicious arc, cracking Gantz along the side of the face with the butt. Gantz went down with a cry, blood running from a gash in his cheek. Longtree pulled the carbine from him and kicked him in the ribs.

"I could have you back in prison for this, Gantz." He ejected the shells from the rifle and tossed it in the woods. "Do it again and I will."

Gantz sat up, moaning and pressing a trembling hand to his wound. "You sonofabitch," he gasped. "You didn't have to do that."

Longtree ignored him, lighting a thin cigar. "Why are you here?"

"To get that animal. To get the bounty."

Longtree spat in the dirt next to him. "All you're going to do is get yourself killed, hear? If you're smart, you'll haul ass out."

"No law," Gantz murmured, "against hunting a dangerous animal."

"Nope. But there is one against endangering the life of a federal officer."

"I didn't mean nothin'."

"Keep out of my way, Gantz. If you fuck with me again, I'll kill you deader than deerhide."

Gantz nodded.

Longtree untethered his black and climbed back on, riding off. He knew this wasn't at an end. Not by any stretch. He had a killer beast on his hands. A sheriff who was a violent drunk. And now Gantz.

There'd be some dying before this mess was wrapped up.

"Get your clothes on, Nell," Sheriff Lauters said. He didn't watch her dress; he gave any woman that much respect, even a prostitute. "You, too, Reverend. It turns my stomach some to see you in the flesh."

Claussen was beyond embarrassment. He was mortified. There was no color left in his once ruddy face. His self-righteous pomposity had crumbled to ash. He was a beaten, broken man whose filthy little secrets had been exposed and this by the man he despised most.

"Sheriff..." Nell began.

"Just get out of here, child, and don't let me catch you plying your trade around a house of worship again. Understand?"

She nodded. Her blue eyes tearful as if she'd been caught in the act by her father.

"Forget about what happened here today," Lauters instructed her. "Forget about seeing me, forget about the reverend. Nothing happened here today. Got it?"

She nodded, sobbing.

"Now, git!"

Nell took off down the stairs, not looking back. Lauters knew she'd say nothing of this. Not ever. If she did, she'd be in serious trouble and she knew it.

Claussen was sitting on the bed, staring at his hands. They shook. As did the rest of him. Lauters just glared at him for a moment, not bothering to mask the disgust on his face. He took off his sheepskin coat and hung it on the door.

"My Lord," Claussen whimpered. "My Lord."

"Shut the fuck up," Lauters snapped. "You and God have parted company, Reverend. And being that this probably isn't the first time you've done something like this, I'd say you parted company some time ago."

Claussen said nothing more, he sobbed, his entire frame shuddering.

"Jesus wept," Lauters said. He fished out his tobacco pouch and wedged a chunk of chew between his cheek and gum. He polished his badge and took it off, setting it on the nightstand by the bed.

"Now I'm no more a man of the law than you are a man of God," he said.

"Sheriff, I--"

"Shut up," Lauters said. "How long have you been deceiving the good people of your church?"

"Not long, I swear. Sin overcame me--"

"You piece of shit," Lauters grumbled, taking the reverend by the shirt collar and tossing him to the floor. He tried to get up and Lauters kicked his legs out from under him.

"When you were a man of God," Lauters began, "I had to take a certain amount of guff from you. After all, it isn't proper to strike a man of the cloth. But now that you're just a sinner like me, there's no reason not to."

He hooked his arm around Claussen's elbow and pulled him to his feet.

They stood eye to eye.

Lauters spat in his face and the reverend only trembled. "Sinner," Lauters said, slamming a fist into his belly. Claussen doubled over with a gasp. Lauters grabbed him by an ear and pulled him back up, striking him in the face with one massive closed hand. Claussen stumbled over a chair and went down, blood streaming from his broken nose. Before he could rise or even recover, Lauters was on him. He grabbed the back of his shirt and planted his knee in the reverend's face.

Claussen's head shot back and struck the wall. He slid down into a heap.

"You turned my wife against me," Lauters said.

Claussen, tears streaming from his swollen eyes, shook his head and Lauters slapped him across the face. Then he did it again, laughed, and backhanded the man. Red, hurting handprints were imbedded in the reverend's face. Blood and drool coursed from his mouth.

Lauters pulled him to his feet, patting him on the shoulder. "You would have turned the whole town against me in time." He slammed Claussen against the wall and held him there with one meaty fist. "I've fought worse enemies than you, Reverend. I've beaten and killed the meanest, ugliest men this vile country has thrown against me. Did you think you had a chance?" He slapped him in the face.
"Answer me!"

"I never...I didn't..."

Lauters kneed him in the groin and then in the stomach. Claussen doubled over, going to his knees, gasping and wheezing, and Lauters struck him in the face with a series of upper cuts and tossed his bleeding, broken body out into the center of the floor.

The reverend lifted his head up. His face was an atrocity. His left eye was swollen shut and puffed red. His nose was smashed at an angle towards his cheek. His lower lip was bulging and gashed. Blood was smeared over his chin and cheeks. His remaining good eye studied the sheriff with a raw hatred.

Lauters kicked him in the face.

With a drunken, psychotic rage, he pulled the reverend to his feet and hammered him in the face with his right fist while holding him up with his left. He kneed him in the stomach again and watched him fall, pounding the back of his head unmercifully with a savage series of blows from both fists.

Claussen dropped to the floor and didn't move.

Lauters, panting with exertion, alcohol sweating out of his bloated face in rivers, rubbed his cut, bleeding fists. "This isn't over yet, Reverend." He took a china pitcher from its stand and filled a basin with water and dumped it on the still, broken heap of the minister.

Claussen came to, his good eye focusing and unfocusing, his head swimming with dizziness. Lauters picked him up and dropped him on the bed.

"I want you out of this town, Reverend. If you're still here day after tomorrow, I'll kill you. Is that clear?"

Claussen attempted a nod.

Lauters patted him on the chest and put his badge back on, then his coat. He stood in the doorway and smiled. "School's out."

Wynona was doing what she did best.

After she had stitched up the gaping wounds in Dewey Mayhew's hide (just so nothing would spill out, mind you), she dressed the man in an old suit provided by his widow. It was no easy task. Mayhew had curled up in a semi-fetal position as he lay dying behind the smithy's shop. Rigor mortis and a nasty wind out of the north had done their best to freeze up his ligaments and muscles permanently in that position. They'd straightened him out some when Doc Perry had done his little autopsy...but not enough.

It was Wynona's job to force things into their proper places. Otherwise, Mayhew wouldn't fit in the box. Dressing the cadaver was one thing, but making him lie flat was quite another.

"Come on, Dewey," Wynona grunted, "work with me, old man."

Wynona was up on the slab with him.

She'd gotten his legs straightened and one arm flat, but the other was no easy task. Every time she pressed his shoulder down that arm swung up from internal stress and slapped her. Wynona was kneeling on Mayhew's bicep and bearing down on his wrist with everything she had. Handling the dead had made her strong. She could toss around 200 pound cadavers like a farm woman handling feed sacks.

But sometimes, the dead were not cooperative.

Dewey was every bit as stubborn in death as he had been in life.

"Come on, you sonofabitch," Wynona groaned. "No need for this now...just help...me out here...uhh..." Wynona gasped for breath. She'd moved the arm enough to fit it in the box, but she wanted to lay it over the breast with the other. It was the traditional position. "You're going in that coffin whether you like it or not...so, please, cooperate..."