A Dangerous Man (14 page)

When Tam Sullivan and Ebenezer Posey left the saloon, snow was falling again. The night was dank, dark, and smelled of the dead. It was not yet seven, so Booker Tate wasn't on the porch dressed in his new finery.

“Well, I'm to bed,” Posey said. “It's been a long, wearisome day.”

Sullivan grabbed the little man's arm. “You're staying with me. I may need you to identify Crow's remains.”

Posey jerked his arm away. “I've seen enough of bodies tonight, thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”

“We'll stroll to the end of the boardwalk. First, I want to take a look at Lady Wainright's house.”

“Without me, I do assure you,” Posey said. “My adventures are—”

Sullivan grabbed Posey by the back of his coat and marched him along the boards without saying a word.

“I must protest, Mr. Sullivan. This is an outrage.”

“Shh. Lady Wainright has a guard dog the size of a mountain lion, only with bigger teeth.”

“You'll get me killed, Mr. Sullivan, and Mrs. Posey will never forgive you.”

“I'm sure she will in time,” Sullivan said facetiously.

Posey let out a thin, terrified wail.

To Sullivan's surprise, the house was in darkness but for one light in the upper story, a bedroom presumably. There were no mud-splattered carriages at the door. The place looked oddly forlorn, as though it shrank away from the assault of the wind and snow.

“Well?” Posey stood stock-still. “What now?”

“Now we go to the doctor's office,” Sullivan replied.

“Why?” The Butterfield man was thoroughly alarmed.

“See if we run into Crow Wallace.”

“But he's dead, or so you say,” Posey argued.

“There may be enough of him left for you to identify,” Sullivan pointed out.

“No, I'm going back to the hotel. Now unhand me this instant.”

“You're staying with me.” Sullivan shook the little man like a terrier with a rat. “The damned body snatching idea was all yours in the first place.” He all but dragged Posey away from Lady Wainright's house and to Doctor Harvey's office.

It was a narrow storefront office wedged between a greengrocer and saddle shop. It's only claim to grandeur was the gold lettered sign on the blacked-out window.

 

P
ETER
H
ARVEY
, M. D.

General Physician

 

Sullivan had already learned that Harvey had a gingerbread house on the hill that he shared with his bride of just six months.

“Pretty girl,” the man who'd sold him cigars and a new case had said. “If you like 'em small.”

“I like them in all sizes,” Sullivan had answered.

The man had grinned. “Then you obviously haven't seen Montana Maine yet.”

As Posey shivered on the boardwalk, Sullivan tried the office door. As he'd expected, it was locked. “We'll go around the back, Ebenezer. Take a look-see.”

“And get shot as burglars. I know we'll get shot,” Posey whined.

“The only people who do any shooting around Comanche Crossing are me and Bill Longley, and he's otherwise engaged tonight.” Sullivan dragged the protesting Posey into the pitch-black depths of the narrow alley next to the saddle store.

Ahead of them a bottle clinked. Sullivan froze and Posey bumped into him, crying out in alarm.

“Shh.” Sullivan said. “I swear, you're loud enough to be heard in the next county.”

“What was that?” In the gloom, Posey's eyes were round as coins.

“Kitty cat,” Sullivan whispered.

A moment later, a tiny calico strolled past and ignored them with practiced feline aloofness.

“Damned cat,” Sullivan muttered as his heartbeat returned to normal.

“We should go back.” Posey grasped at straws. “It's bad luck when a cat crosses your path.”

“Nah, it has to be a black cat. That was a . . . some other kind of cat.”

The alley opened up into a storage area, swept by wind gusts and a ragged lace of snow. Behind the saddle shop, the Butterfield stage was propped up on timbers, its front wheels missing.

“That's my stage,” Posey whispered. “Oh dear. It's got no wheels.”

“Seems like,” Sullivan said.

“I wish the wheels were repaired and I was on it, driving away from here,” Posey said.

“You'll get your wish, soon enough.” Sullivan tried the back door, turning the handle. Locked. Stepping back, he studied the two rear windows and attempted to open them. They were shut tight.

“Mr. Sullivan, look there.” Posey pointed upward. Snow crusted his fur coat and he looked like a diminutive polar bear.

Sullivan followed his pointing finger and saw that the skylight above the door was open a crack. “We can push that open then you can climb through.”

Posey shook his head. “Not me. It's so dark back here, and I'm afraid.”

“Hell, I'm too big to climb through there,” Sullivan grumbled. “Get your coat off.”

“I'll freeze,” Posey wailed. “It's cold.”

“No, you won't freeze. You'll keep warm climbing through the skylight.”

Despite the little man's protests, Sullivan tugged off the coat and tossed it onto the ground. “Now, come on. I'll give you a boost.”

Posey, shaking like a willow in a whirlwind, stamped his foot. “No, you will not. This is far too dangerous. Suppose there's a body snatcher back there, lying in wait?”

“Who would want your body?” Sullivan sighed. “Oh, all right. Just open the skylight and I'll do the rest.”

Posey turned distrustful eyes toward the bounty hunter.

“Honest,” Sullivan said. “Open the window then I'll climb up there and get inside.”

“Very well, then,” Posey said, his voice shaking. “The sooner you get in there, the sooner I can get back to my room.”

“That's a good way to think, Ebenezer. It's a crackerjack take on things.”

Posey stepped into Sullivan's cupped hands, weighing not much more than a hundred pounds. He was pushed up but not close enough to reach the window. “A bit higher.” he said.

Sullivan, a big and strong man, had no trouble boosting him higher. He watched Posey push on the window. It creaked, then fell inward.

“Ebenezer, stick your head in there,” Sullivan said in a coarse whisper. “Tell me what you see.”

When it came to dealing with professional bounty hunters, among the most ruthless men on the frontier, Ebenezer Posey was way out of his depth.

To Sullivan's joy the little man stuck his head and shoulders inside.

“I can't see a thing,” Posey said, his voice muffled. “It's dark as night.”

“Look closer. Let your eyes get accustomed.” Sullivan heaved upward on Posey's foot with all his strength.

As though he'd been shot out of a cannon, the little man went through the open skylight headfirst, and vanished from view.

A despairing wail was followed by a reverberating crash that sounded like a shelf of tin pans collapsing onto a stone floor.

“Damn!” Sullivan muttered. “Posey, you clumsy—” He stepped quickly from the yard, ran through the alley and into the street. Surely somebody had heard the clanging, clamoring racket.

But to Sullivan's relief, the town remained dark and quiet and no curious passerby was in sight.

He quickly returned to the back of the doctor's office and stepped to the door. “Ebenezer . . . open up.”

Sullivan was answered by a groan from the other side that only served to irritate him.

“Damn it, man, open the door.”

“I'm trying Mr. Sullivan. I'm very much bruised,” Posey said, his voice trembling

Sullivan heard shuffling feet, then the
click-click
of a turning key, and the door slowly opened. Rushing inside, he said, “You see any sign of Crow?”

“I've hurt my head,” Posey said. “I feel very dizzy.”

As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Sullivan looked around him. “Wait. This is a storeroom. They wouldn't keep Crow here.”

A bucket and mop stood in a corner and the surrounding shelves were stocked with bottles and jars of all shapes, sizes, and colors, except for the one Posey had knocked down during his fall.

Metal bedpans, basins, and small pails were also scattered all over the floor.

“Damned careless of you, Ebenezer,” Sullivan chided, irritated again.

“I think I'm badly hurt, Mr. Sullivan,” Posey complained. “I took a terrible tumble.”

“Let's explore the rest of the office, see if the doc has Crow stashed away someplace else.” Sullivan grabbed Posey's arm.

“I-I don't think I can manage. I want to go to bed.”

“Follow me.” Sullivan headed out of the storage room.

But a further search proved fruitless. There was no sign of Wallace's body or any other.

“Damn it, we've hit a brick wall,” Sullivan said.

“Can I go to bed now?” Posey whined. “I hurt all over, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Bodies don't just disappear,” Sullivan said, scowling in thought. “Crow's got to be somewhere.” He stared through the darkness at Posey. The little man looked worn out, like a scarecrow that had been left in the cornfield for too long. Sullivan frowned. “Did you get hurt?”

“Well, I—”

“Good, glad to hear it,” Sullivan interrupted. “Now let's get the hell out of here.” He glared at Posey. “I swear I never met a man who could make as much noise as you.”

Bill Longley knocked on Mayor York's door, then turned to Tate. “You look good, Booker. All gussied up and cutting a dash like a big city dude.”

“I'm nervous,” Tate said. “I've never gone a-courtin' afore, Bill.”

“Don't be. Remember, you're trying to impress the girl now, but she's a throwaway later.” Longley knocked again. Louder.

They stood on the porch and behind them a heavy snow drove past the house like a herd of spotted ponies.

The door opened. York saw who it was and stepped outside, his face stiff. “What can I do for you gents?”

“My friend Booker has come, in all his courting finery, to talk with Miss Lisa,” Longley said importantly. “Please invite us inside so he can fairly state his romantic intentions.”

“My daughter is not entertaining callers at this time,” York said stiffly. “Now be off with both of you.”

“Mr. Tate has molasses candy for Miss Lisa and he wishes to present it to her personally, like,” Longley continued.

York said nothing. He stepped inside and tried to close the door behind him.

Longley held it open with his foot and his big Dance revolver came up fast, the muzzle under York's chin. He smiled. “I said, personally.”

“John, let him pass.”

This from Buck Bowman who stood in the shadowed hallway.

York wavered, but Bowman said, “He's a mad dog and cold-blooded killer.”

Longley's smile widened. “Why bartender—or should I say
Sheriff
? How very clever of you to sum up my personality so perfectly.”

“Don't push me, Longley,” Bowman said, stepping forward.

“I wouldn't dream of it. Now, may we come in? It's cold standing here.”

“This is my home,” York said. “When I say leave, you leave.”

“Mr. Tate would never dream of quarreling with his future father-in-law over such a trivial matter.” Longley pushed past York and said to Bowman, “Will you give us the road?”

“The parlor is straight ahead of you.” York pointed. “I want no violence here.”

“Of course you don't,” Longley said, his voice silky. “My associate has come to court Miss Lisa York, not to shoot someone, for heaven's sake.”

“Wait.” York stopped them. “Leave your guns on the table in the hallway there.”

Longley nodded. “Booker, do as the gentleman says. As for me, my revolvers are both wife and child to me, and I never part with them.” He glanced at Bowman. “I see Mr. Bowman is wearing his gun.”

“He's the sheriff,” York said. “He's entitled to wear a revolver.”

Longley watched Tate drop his gun belt onto the table. “We were kept waiting on the porch. Now do we have to do the same in the hallway?”

“Longley, you pointed a gun at the mayor,” Bowman said.

“A harmless prank, bartender. I'm just a little overly excited about Booker's upcoming nuptials.”

“Let it go, Buck.” York turned to Tate, “You will never marry my daughter.”

“Let's hear what the little lady has to say about it,” Tate said.

York was silent for a few moments then seemed to make up his mind about something. “Very well. Follow me.”

 

 

Apart from Bowman and York and his daughter, there were two other people in the parlor—Perry Cox the banker, looking well fed and prosperous and a slim, middle-aged woman that Longley took to be the girl's mother.

To say that Lisa York was ravishingly beautiful that night would be an exaggeration, but her cornflower blue eyes, wide full mouth, and the curled yellow hair piled up on the top of her head added up to a wholesome prettiness. Her firm, shapely body promised much to a man.

Tate raked her with hot eyes. “I brung you candy, Miss Lisa,” he said, extending a red and white striped paper sack to her.

“Your hat, Mr. Tate,” Longley said.

“Oh yeah.” Tate removed his plug hat revealing a tangled mat of red hair, lank because he was sweating profusely.

“Thank you,” Lisa said, forcing a smile. “How thoughtful of you.” She took the sack and, without looking inside, laid it on the table beside her.

“It's molasses taffy,” Tate said.

“Very sweet of you,” Lisa said, her face expressionless.

“Well, is no one going to offer us a chair? A drink?” Longley asked.

“No. You've given my daughter the candy and now it's time to leave,” York said.

“A cold reception,” Longley said. “Not what we'd expected.”

“It's the only kind you'll get here,” the mayor said.

Longley turned to Tate, his face furious. “Say your piece, Booker.”

The man's dim brain worked, then he said, “About what, Bill?”

“Your proposal of marriage, stupid.”

Tate's brutish face lit up. “Oh yeah.” He coughed. “Miss Lisa, will you—”

“Don't ask. Tell her!” Longley ordered.

Tate was momentarily flustered. His hat dropped from his hands and he bent and picked it up before he spoke again. “Miss Lisa, you will be my wife.”

“Tell her when the nuptials will take place, Booker,” Longley went on.

“Yeah. On Christmas Eve.”

“Tell her where, Booker,” Longley continued.

“Um . . .”

“Right here. Now tell the little lady the rest,” Longley said.

Tate's face became animated again. “Yeah, right here in this parlor. How do you like that idea, Miss Lisa?”

The girl's eyes flew wide open and it took her a while to find words. “Are you stark raving mad? I'm not going to marry you.”

“Sure you will, Miss Lisa,” Tate said. “Me and Bill are gonna make you marry me.” He frowned, trying to remember, then smiled. “Bill says you're a bride first and a throwaway later.”

The girl's mother rose to her feet. Polly York was normally a quiet, even-tempered woman, but her face was flushed with anger. “Get out of my house, you pair of scoundrels, and don't ever come back. Get out now!”

“Unfriendly words from a future mother-in-law,” Longley said, his thin mouth twisting into a sneer.

“I said get out!” Polly cried and did something that surprised everybody.

She stepped quickly to the piano stool, opened it, and came up with a massive Colt Dragoon revolver. She thumbed back the hammer, two-handed the revolver to eye-level, and pointed the unwavering muzzle at Longley. “Leave, trash. Or as God's my witness, I'll shoot you.”

Longley wavered, enraged at the woman's presumption.

But like a tigress protecting her cub, Polly York would not yield an inch. “Out!” she yelled.

“Longley, make a move for those pistols and I'll drop you right where you stand.” Buck Bowman had his Colt in hand and his eyes glittered like a hoar frost. That night the Texas Ranger in him was not hard to find.

Bill Longley thought about it. A fast grab for both guns, shoot Bowman, step quickly to his left and kill the woman. Then another ball for the sheriff if he needed it.

But as soon as he considered it, he dismissed the idea entirely. Buck Bowman was a big man. He would take his hits and shoot back . . . and wouldn't miss at the close range, damn him. Longley considered his skin too precious to attempt a risky double play.

It was a tense situation, stretching taut as a fiddle string, ready to break at any moment.

Booker Tate's thick wits ended it. “Well, Miss Lisa, what do you think about our wedding day?”

“Shut your trap, Booker,” Longley spat out. “Mrs. York, we're leaving, but Booker will wed and bed your daughter on Christmas Eve. And do you know why?”

He answered his own question in the silence that followed. “Because I wish it so. It amuses me.”

“Longley, I should kill you right now,” Bowman said.

“Sure, bartender. And see how many shots I get into the two ladies present before I go down.”

“You're a murdering, yellow dog, Longley,” Bowman said. “And I plan to be at the gallows to see you hang.”

John York took the Dragoon from his wife. “Get out.”

Longley smiled. “Sure thing, Mayor. But you'll rue this day. Every damned one of you will regret every moment of it.” He moved his attention to the banker. “Mr. Cox, you and I will do business real soon.”

“Not with the First Bank of Comanche Crossing, you won't,” Cox said.

Longley grinned, enjoying himself. “Oh, but we will, Mr. Cox. Depend on it.”