Journey into Violence (11 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

When he was full of Kansas sheep dip, the Texas cowboy was a bad man to handle. Usually lawmen stayed in the background and allowed him to blow off steam until he called it a night and crawled into the nearest hollow log to sleep it off.

But a much more dangerous caste of men was in Dodge City, quieter men with careful eyes who looked at nothing directly, but were aware of everything. Called shootists, pistoleros, or gunmen, some were of the new breed of Texas draw fighters that made the newspaper headlines and the covers of the dime novels. Like all the other two-legged predators in town, their only reason for being there was to prey on the cowboys. Their weapons were cards and dice. In a wild violent town, their gun reputations were sufficient to keep most of them alive.

Such a man was Morgan Braddock.

Some said he'd killed twenty men, others half that number, but when he was in his cups and maudlin, Braddock admitted to only nine, all of them kills-for-hire. So when a big man, rough as a cob, approached him in the Long Branch and offered him a contract kill, Braddock jumped at the chance. He'd been losing big at the tables and a fast five hundred, just like that, would put him back in the game.

“Can you handle Frank Cobb?” the big man said.

“Never heard of him, but I can handle anybody you care to mention,” Braddock said.

“He's a tall, good-looking—”

“No need to spell it out. If he's a gun, I'll peg him.”

“Because of the murders the whores are staying away from the line, but Cobb and a woman will be there tonight at ten. I sent a boy to deliver a message to their hotel that will draw them out. It's the woman I'm most interested in. Red hair, expensive clothes, real pretty. I mean a looker. I want her dead, dead, dead, Braddock. Dead as hell in a parson's parlor. The five hundred is for both, but you give me clean kills, no maybes, and I'll add another hundred.”

“You got it,” Braddock said, counting the five hundred, all in federal bills. “When the job is over and the killing is done, I'll come back for the other hundred.”

The big man studied the gunman's duds, black shirt, pants, boots, hat, gun, holster, and cartridge belt. “You always dress like that, all in black like an undertaker?”

“Yeah. I'm always in mourning for the men I've killed.”

“And now you'll mourn a woman.”

“There's a first time for everything.”

“Cobb's fast. Killed a man only last night.”

“Men are always getting themselves killed,” Braddock said. “Now get the hell away from me. I like to think when I'm drinking.”

“Remember, I want it clean. No slipups.”

“Beat it.”

After the big man left, Braddock stared at the painting of a nude woman above the bar. To the bartender he said, “Who is she?”

The bartender glanced at the painting. “Bat Masterson says—hey—do you know him?”

“By sight. What does he say?”

“Well, he says the gal's name is Mattie Blaylock, one time the common-law wife of an Arizona lawman by the name of Earp. Masterson says she was facing hard times when she posed for the picture for fifty dollars.”

“She isn't pretty,” Braddock said.

“Mister, nobody who comes into the Long Branch looks at her face.”

“Big ass.”

“Yeah. I guess from her ass alone the painter got his fifty dollars' worth,” The bartender flipped a towel over his shoulder and stepped away.

Braddock continued to study the nude, his intense sky blue eyes moving over her shoulders, breasts, slightly rounded belly, and then to her hips again. Soft, all of her soft. He drained his whiskey glass.
Damn!
He'd never thought about it before—where do you shoot a woman?

* * *

Drugo Odell studied himself in the full-length mirror in his hotel room. What a pity no one ever saw him without his coat. The oxblood shoulder holster he wore had been made and hand-tooled by an Austrian craftsman, the carving done in the ancient Celtic style, and it fitted his Colt like a glove. So pleased had Odell been by the work, it crossed his mind to kill the Austrian so that he'd never make another quite like it. But when the old man declared it his masterpiece, sadly swearing that as he entered his dotage he would never surpass its beauty and function, Odell let him off the hook. The old fool would die soon enough anyway.

Odell sighed and covered up the beautiful gun rig with his high-button coat. Sarah Hollis had long admired his holster and that had pleased him. Of course, she'd had to die and that was unfortunate. Telling him that she was running away with an eighteen-year-old Texas puncher—to get married, or so she said—was an insult not to be borne. That was why she got the bowie knife in her chest. The cowboy, his name was Rusty Rhodes for God's sake, left Dodge with his outfit and Odell never knew if he planned to marry her or not. Probably not. Under the spell of whiskey and the heat of lust, a cowboy would pretty much tell a woman like Sarah anything she wanted to hear.

After donning his bowler and adjusting the fall of his coat around his gun, Odell admired himself at length. No wonder the whores loved him. Bat Masterson was in town and the dude could certainly cut a dash, but he'd nothing on the man smiling so confidently at Drugo Odell in the mirror . . . himself, of course.

He had urgent business to attend to that evening, an affair of the heart. He needed to find a woman to dominate, to use and abuse, and satisfy his sadistic urges.

He smiled at himself in the mirror. It was time to begin the hunt.

C
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WENTY-ONE

“We could walk right into a trap, Kate,” Frank said. “There's something about the setup that makes me feel uneasy.”

“I'm aware of that, Frank.” For the second time that evening, Kate read aloud the note the boy had delivered. “‘Come to the line shacks at ten tonight. I have information. Bring a hundred dollars.' Just that. No signature.”

“The boy handed it to me and then ran away,” Trace said. “I didn't get a chance to question him.”

“The fact that the informant, he or she, is doing this for a hundred dollars might indicate that it's genuine,” Kate said.

“Or someone is being mighty clever,” Frank said.

“Ma, we could show the note to Sheriff Hinkle and let him handle it.”

Kate shook her head. “No. If this note is genuine Hinkle would only mess things up. Whoever the informant is, he'd take one look at the sheriff and run.”

“Then how do you want to play this?” Frank said. “And I might as well tell you that I dread your answer, Kate.”

She was silent for a few moments as she stared in concentration at the sepia brown hotel room wall. “We'll go there, Frank. A man's life is at stake and we can't ignore anything that could save him. I guess we'll have to take a chance.”

“Then we'll all go,” Trace said.

“No, Trace. You need to rest and heal.” Kate smiled. “But I'll take your Winchester. I'm not that trusting.”

“I got a burn across my shoulders, that's all, Ma. You're trying to keep me out of harm's way, but I'm going with you.”

“And I say you're not.”

“Kate, Trace is man-grown and he's good with a rifle. I'd like him with us.”

Kate Kerrigan looked from Frank to her son. Two men, both of them big, capable, and confident. Her son wasn't a boy any longer. He'd killed a man on his first trail drive and after that he'd grown up fast. From boy to man almost overnight. It had been that quick.

“Very well, Trace, you can come with us,” Kate said, knowing full well that she was surrendering. “But if you get shot again don't blame me.”

Frank and Trace exchanged amused looks, but neither said a word.

* * *

Morgan Braddock lifted his eyes to the railroad clock on the saloon wall. It was nine-thirty. Time to move. He finished his whiskey, stepped away from the bar, and walked outside into the crowded, clamorous night.

* * *

She was perfect.

After the girl finished a fifty-cent dance with a puncher, Drugo Odell called her over to his table. “Can I buy you a drink, little lady?”

The girl had hennaed hair and a pout. She sat and said that the Top Hat was very busy and yes, she'd like a drink. A bottle of Mumm's Brut Cordon Rouge would be perfect if the gent felt inclined to be generous.

Odell grinned and began to reel in his prey. “For you, anything your little heart desires.” He ordered the overpriced champagne and said, “What's your name?”

Her name was Nellie, Nellie Wilde from Liverpool, England. She'd gotten off the boat just a year before and had made her way to Kansas, selling her favors to gents along the way, but only to cover expenses, mind. Now she was much more choosy and preferred to sell them only to well-bred gentlemen like the one she was sitting with.

“Isn't the champagne just too-too delicious?” With her luxuriant red hair and big brown eyes, she was a pretty girl. She was slightly plump and she knew how to fill out the scarlet corset she wore. Her moist, pouty mouth was always slightly open as though she found it difficult to breathe. When she laughed at Odell's dirty jokes, her small teeth, even and white, were visible.

Watching her, he had a wonderful idea. He'd invite Nellie to take a stroll with him and begin her education in Sarah Hollis's shack. How droll. It was a plan so elegant, so exquisite, he could barely contain his excitement. The girl was pliable. Once she was broken in, she'd learn quickly.

Odell consulted his watch. It was fifteen minutes until ten. It was stuffy in the saloon and he suggested a stroll. “We'll take the bottle with us.”

Nellie was fine with that, but there would be an additional charge on top of . . . well, whatever the gent might want. Mr. Franklin didn't like the girls leaving the Top Hat with clients, but he made exceptions if a walking-out fee was paid.

Odell said she was worth every penny and the two walked out of the Top Hat arm in arm, laughing.

* * *

Placed so it could be seen from Front Street, a red lantern was attached to the gable wall of the first of the line cabins. Morgan Braddock took it down, thumbed a match into flame, and lit the wick. The lamp flared into scarlet life and he hung it on its hook again. The lit lantern would attract the attention of anyone walking up the alley, if only for a few moments. He was a man who believed in getting an edge, no matter how slight. His boots crunched across the gravel lane away from the shacks and he faded into the darkness opposite where a few struggling soapberry trees grew.

He drew his Colt and let the revolver hang by his side. Somewhere along Front Street a male tenor sang “A Maiden Fair to See
”
from
H.M.S. Pinafore
and made a nice job of it. The moon was up but hidden behind clouds and Braddock thought it might rain. He'd killed a gambler named Lawson Beaudry in New Orleans during a thunderstorm and hadn't cared for it much. His damn gun hand had gotten wet and slippery and had slowed him on the draw and shoot. He'd still been too fast for Beaudry, but it had been a close-run thing.

Ten o'clock, the big man had told him. Well, it was closing in on that time. Braddock breathed easily, consciously slowing his heartbeat for the draw as his eyes and ears reached out into the sights and sounds of the Dodge City night.

He had not much longer to wait.

* * *

Kate buttoned the split canvas riding skirt she'd worn on the trail, put on a white shirt, and pulled on her boots. She piled up her hair and pinned it in place and then slipped a .450 caliber Webley Bull Dog revolver into her skirt pocket, a present from Captain Delaney, who assured her it had once been the property of the gallant Custer.

Trace and Frank were waiting for her in the lobby.

It was time to go.

* * *

Odell thought the girl seemed eager since she was already a little bit sweaty, a desirable trait in a whore. As they left Front Street and turned into the alley, Nellie became more professional, outlining her services and the price list. He wanted them all, and Nellie said that many gents went that route. It was cheaper in the long run because of the ten percent discount.

Odell reckoned that he would take great pleasure in breaking her to his will. At first, he'd use a combination of fear and occasional displays of affection and generosity, but once he had her completely dependent on opium, he would own her—body and soul.

The lit red lantern at the gable end of the line shacks troubled him. He'd been told that the working girls had abandoned the place out of fear. He wondered if they had moved back, driven by necessity.

Nellie said, “Seems that some of the girls are already working.” A wind had sprung up and the air smelled of rain. “Oh, there's a client, but I don't see a girl with him.”

Odell pushed her away from him and she shrieked and fell. The bullet that would have taken her life split the air two feet above her recumbent body. He had spotted the danger the moment the man stepped out of the shadows and was already drawing as he stepped to his left and fired. Illuminated only by the red mist of the lantern light, he thought he saw the man stagger as though he'd taken a hard hit. The man steadied and swung his gun on Odell, holding it in both hands. Closer to the scarlet lantern, Odell looked as though he was splashed in blood. He and his assailant fired at the same time. The girl was screaming and scrambling around on all fours.

Odell, a fine marksman, scored another hit, then fired again, believing that would be his bluebird shot. But the big gunman staggered forward on dragging feet and moved in the direction of the redheaded girl, who was facedown on the ground, her head covered by her arms.

Odell lowered his Colt to waist level, his eyes on the gunman.
What the hell?
Why was he so determined to shoot Nellie? Had she given him a dose of the clap? He wondered as the big man stopped, and again two-handed his revolver as though it had suddenly become too heavy for him.

Odell shook his head, took up a duelist's stance—his right arm straight and extended—and shot Morgan Braddock in the left temple. Braddock fell like a puppet that had its strings cut. At the same time, Nellie scrambled to her feet, her face frantic. She ran for Front Street as fast as her short, shapely legs could carry her yelling “Murder!” at the top of her lungs.

Intrigued, Odell stepped to Braddock's sprawled body. The man laid on his back, staring at the black sky with open, dead eyes. Odell had never seen him before. The gunman had been hit four times, three bullets in the chest and one in the head. He earned Odell's grudging admiration. Whoever the hell he was, he'd been a hard man to kill.