Hell's Marshal (12 page)

By the time they trotted into Liberty the next day, the sun was setting in a sea of fire to their west as another round of storms built over the plains, preparing for their assault eastward. Brilliant purples and oranges, reds and umbers painted the horizon, while darkness grew in the cobbled streets of Liberty, with its two-and-three-story buildings.

Frank couldn’t enjoy the colors, though, for his body felt ready to collapse, as if every ounce of life had seeped into the ground or evaporated into the air. He’d kept watch the whole trip, trying to spot the Hellhound, and it had taken its toll on him. He could feel his body deteriorating. The coach wheeled to a stop outside a hotel, Stan hopping down to open the door for Spike and Curtis. Frank dragged himself from the bench, nearly collapsing when his feet hit the ground.

Spike didn’t look much better as he forced his huge frame out of the coach.

Stan tossed Frank a skeleton key.

“Room 3C. Got get some rest. Your bodies need some down time. Curtis and I will get something to eat.” He led Curtis by the elbow away from the hotel. “Not all of us can go without food, you know?”

Frank still didn’t trust the driver, but was too tired to argue, so he climbed the steps.

“And we need to see a man about a horse,” Curtis blabbed. “Some information from a reliable source or two.”

Stan tried to shush him, but Frank had already stopped in his tracks.

“No! It’s too dangerous. Once we’re rested—”

“By the time you’re rested,” Curtis argued, “it’ll be too late. Besides, no one will talk to a gunfighter, especially a smelly one matching your description, but they’ll spill just about anything to a boy. After all, what harm could that do?”

He flashed a grin of exaggerated innocence. Frank wanted to argue, but lacked the energy. Besides, the boy was probably right—he had a better chance at finding information than Frank did, and time was running short.

“All right, go ahead. But you listen to Stan here. There are enough corpses in this posse already.” He fired a warning glare at the driver. “Anything happens to him, and you’ll get to meet those judges in person sooner than you’d expect.”

Stan paled and swallowed hard.

“He’s in good hands.”

And off they went into the growing darkness.

Frank and Spike trudged up the stairs to their third-floor room, locked the door behind them, and collapsed. Frank fell into a cushioned chair, propping his feet up on a chaise, while Spike flopped onto the lone bed and was snoring within minutes. Frank took in the room’s smoke-stained wallpaper, single window, and had just started nodding off when a dog barked.

Batcho? He pushed himself out of the chair and moved to the window. It opened over a dark, dank alley behind the hotel, a place Frank would not want to walk, even as someone already dead. A black-and-white mutt whined and slinked off down the alley, into the dark.

The hair on the back of Frank’s neck rose. Goosebumps prickled his skin as a shadow detached itself from a corner of the alley, stepping into the dim light cast by his open window. The Hellhound glared up at him with eyes of yellow fire, and let out a hate-filled growl. Frank gasped at the sheer enormity of the beast, easily four feet at the shoulders, and as big around as Spike.

Frank squinted and thought he could make out finger-length fangs under the fierce, hateful glow of its eyes. Then the hound turned and bound away down the alley, disappearing into the shadows.

Frank shivered and closed the window, locking it tight, as if that would stop something that huge. Then, he collapsed in his chair again.

This time, he slept.

* * *

He awoke to the sound of someone wiggling a key in the lock on their door, or picking the lock—he wasn’t sure which. So he rolled out of the chair, drew his pistol, and cocked back the hammer just as the door inched open and a golden blade of light sliced into the room.

Whispered voices tiptoed over the rough sound of Spike’s rhythmic breathing.

The door edged open, bit by bit, until it revealed two figures standing outside. Frank stood and took aim at the larger one’s head.

“Frank?” Curtis asked. “It’s just us. Me ‘n Stan.”

Frank exhaled in a rush and lowered his pistol. The boy’s voice woke Spike, who turned up the oil lamp beside the bed.

Sighing, Frank dropped into the chair again. Stan stepped in and closed the door behind him.

“I don’t recall being this paranoid when I was alive,” Frank said, wishing for a drink.

He told them all about the Hellhound, causing Stan to dash to the window and peer out into the night with his glowing blue eyes. Then he waved his hands around the frame and muttered under his breath. When done, he turned to Frank.

“It’s gone.” His brow furrowed and he looked like his mind was somewhere else. “But it’ll be back. It should have trouble seeing through the window now.”

Frank nodded. “What did you find out?”

Curtis and Stan swapped a look that said neither of them wanted to go first. Frank was about to ask when a knock sounded on the door.

Frank started to draw again, but the boy held up his hands in a calming gesture.

“It’s all right. We’re expecting him. He wants to help.”

He moved toward the door.

“Just who the Hell is this—”

Curtis swung the door open and standing in the hall, haloed by the brighter light, was the bowler-wearing detective they’d met on the train, his moustache just as thick as it had been that day. His eyes appraised the room in a single sweep, and when he stepped inside, his brass badge shone.

“Charlie Mills, Detective.”

“The Pinkerton man?” Frank raised his eyebrows. “Just what we need.”

“Yeah,” Spike chimed in, hostility lacing his voice like ivy around a trellis. “Don’t you have mine workers to rough up or something? What do you want with our little party?”

Mills closed the door behind him.

“I was sent to investigate rumors of a possible gang of rebel sympathizers here in the Kansas River area. I overheard this youngster asking questions about one of my suspects, Jeb Fisher.

“So, young Curtis and I had a conversation that led us both to believe we share a common interest in seeing Mr. Fisher—or whoever he is—stopped.”

Frank exchanged a look with Spike, the bartender raising an eyebrow.

“What do you mean, ‘whoever he is?’”

Mills studied Frank with a trained eye that shone with years of experience judging people.

“Your two young friends here either have a knack for tall tales or have seen some pretty strange things.” The detective sniffed the air, his moustache twitching. “And judging by the aroma coming off you two, and what I saw your coach driver do outside, I’m not inclined to dismiss them off-hand, though I admit some skepticism.”

Frank shot the two a reproachful glare, but Curtis still grinned, his teeth shining like lanterns.

“You said we needed help, so I brought help. You could at least show a little thanks…what better help than a Pinkerton man?”

Having the agency’s assets at their disposal would be helpful in dealing with the new James gang. If they could trust him, and that was a big “if.”

“My agency was in pursuit of the James boys at one point. We have experience dealing with his type, so if Mr. Fisher is a copycat, we could be of assistance in stopping him.”

“Pursuit?” Spike said, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t your boys kill Jesse’s half-brother and blow his mother’s arm off?”

Mills winced like he’d been slapped, but recovered in a flash.

“No one positively tied our men to that…horrible accident,” he said, choosing his words like snakes from a basket. “We deny all—”

Frank cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, we don’t have time for your excuses. What you heard from Curtis there is true, Jesse James’ soul escaped from Hell and it’s our job to lasso him back down there. What can you do to help us?”

Mills raised an eyebrow.

Frank grunted and rolled up his sleeve, showing him where his skin had started to rot again. When that failed to impress the detective, Frank peeled off a fingernail and watched as it grew back immediately.

“Why don’t we just assume you’re telling the truth?” Mills said. “That way we can skip over my detective’s need for hard evidence and get right to preventing this uprising.”

Frank nodded. “And we’ll just assume you’re trustworthy, too.”

“All right,” Mills went on, “tell me what you’ve learned about Mr. Fisher’s plans.”

Frank told him everything he could remember, from the killing of Bob Ford and the load of dynamite to the robbery in Northfield and the growing gang. He also mentioned Camille, the prospector, and the statements about taking back what’s rightfully theirs, Liberty, and the Clay from which they’d come. He chose to omit the part about the Hellhound. When he finished, Mills leaned back against the door, stuffed a wad of chew in his mouth, and ruminated at the ceiling.

After a few minutes, he stood and paced to the window, where he gazed out into the night. Frank hoped the Hellhound would make an appearance, just to frighten the detective into believing their story.

“It all adds up,” he said, not looking away from the window. Frank disliked his flair for the dramatic. “Clay County is where Jesse’s family came from, but the Union eventually ran them out of there, and Liberty refers to this town, the seat of Clay County.

“We received information a week ago that subversive elements from Clay County were going to try to rob union-associated banks, possibly in retaliation for the north’s treatment of the James family or as revenge for the death of little Archie and the maiming of Zerelda James.

“First National hired my agency, and based on the Northfield robbery, we picked up Jeb Fisher’s name and followed it here. But so far, no robberies, despite all that dynamite.”

Frank stood and paced the room like the detective, scratching the spot on his chin where stubble would normally grow if he were alive.

“Wasn’t Jesse part of a rebel militia group during the war?”

Mills nodded. “Quantrill’s Raiders. And he followed Bloody Bill Anderson after that. Those two groups wreaked quite a bit of havoc along the Kansas-Missouri border.”

“Bill Anderson was brutal,” Spike said. “He used to wear a necklace of union scalps around his neck.”

It all made sense to Frank now. The dynamite, the gang, the money. And the presence in Clay County. Even the letter in the paper fit.

“He’s not just trying to bring down the local government,” he muttered, loud enough for all to hear. “He’s trying to re-start the war, gain revenge, and bring the south back to power.”

Mills gave him another skeptical look. “Think about it,” Frank explained. “Whether you believe James is back or that this is a copycat, it all adds up. He sets off some bombs, kills some government leaders, and terrorizes some pro-union citizens. He’s convinced people the government can’t protect them and avenged old perceived wrongs, the tinder for change is dry and ready to ignite.

“Then the Army moves in, and they make matters worse by making all these pro-rebel citizens feel oppressed, and suddenly the ranks of his militia grow.”

The other three stared at him, mouths open.

“I served, too,” he explained. “Union Army down in Texas. Both sides did this kind of thing.”

“All right, how do we stop them?” Mills asked.

Frank shrugged. “That ain’t our job. We’re here to take one soul back to Hell, nothing more.”

“So, I’m on my own?”

“I didn’t say that,” Frank said. “Seems to me we have a lot in common, even if our end goals ain’t exactly the same. How many men can you get to fight the gang?”

Mills counted on his fingers. “Including me…one.”

Frank shot him a flat stare, but chuckled inwardly. The man had pluck to get flip with a gunfighter from Hell. “What do you bring to the table, then, partner? Besides that girly British pistol tucked in the back of your pants.”

Mills blushed a bit, his hand straying part way to the gun. Then he regained his composure.

“I know their target.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Frank leaned against the corner of Goldman’s Grocer on the south side of Town Square, looking north at the red brick of the Clay County courthouse building. With its white clock tower and dark dome, it sat alone on a plot of grass and trees, as if someone had dropped the entire symmetrical space down in the middle of the city. Atop the dome, a white marble statue of lady justice stood watch, wraith-like against the cold pallor of the Missouri sky.

“They say it’s the finest courthouse in the state.” Mills stood a few feet away, a smoke hanging under his bushy moustache. Above them, in the window of the Thompson House Hotel, Spike cleared his throat. Frank had set the barkeep and Stan there, ready to use the Winchester and Sharps to take out any gang members Frank and Mills couldn’t handle.

Only, no gang members had shown up yet. The front of the courthouse buzzed with people, but so far, nothing unusual had taken place, and noon had passed an hour ago, when the clouds had rolled in and the temperature dropped like lead in a pond.

“You sure about this?” Frank asked. He’d started doubting the detective’s motives.