C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN
“What did they talk about when they were in Sarah Hollis's shack,” Drugo Odell said. “What are you worried about? You can talk to me.”
Alva Cranley, her mahogany face shiny with sweat from the afternoon heat trapped inside her own tiny cabin, shook her head. “I don't know what they talked about, sugar. I wasn't there.”
“But you saw them leave, huh? I got a man says you watched them leave.”
“Yeah, a real pretty woman with two young men and Sheriff Hinkle.”
“Did they stay in the shack long?”
“Long enough, sugar. Why you asking a poor black lady all these questions? You a detective of some kind?”
“No. Just call me an interested party. You scared of me?”
“Hell, no. Should I be?”
“Yeah, you should,” Drugo said. “I'm down on people like you.”
“Man in a ditto suit and a celluloid collar got to be a preacher,” Alva said. “You come here to preach to me or screw a black woman?”
“Neither. I don't preach and I'd rather screw a rat than a black woman.”
Alva rose from the edge of her cot, a large imposing woman with a massive bust and a broad face with high cheekbones. “Get out of here. I don't want you in my house.”
“House? You call this hovel a house?”
“Will you get out of here or do I have to yell for help?”
“Try that and I'll kill you,” Odell said.
Alva Cranley smiled, showing fine white teeth. One of the central incisors was crowned with gold. “I've beaten up bigger men than you, little feller.”
Odell reached under his high-button coat and suddenly a short-barreled Colt was in his hand. Alva's eyes opened wide. The motion had been quick, so amazingly rapid it defied reality. No one could move that fast . . . like a lightning strike. The triple click of the Colt's cocking hammer sounded like a death knell.
The big woman collapsed onto the rusty iron cot and it squealed under her like a piglet caught under a gate. “What do you want from me, mister?”
Odell pointed the gun at her head. “Who killed Sarah Hollis?”
“Not the man Hinkle arrested,” Alva said.
“Who do you think killed her?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't think it was the man the sheriff arrested?”
“Maybe I don't.”
“You pretended you'd never seen me before.”
Alva said, “I never seen you before. I figured you come here to lie with a black woman.”
“Why don't you tell me the truth? Are white men rough with you?” Drugo Odell waited.
“Sometimes. All right. Maybe I seen you here. Sarah had all kinds of gentleman callers.”
“She tell you about any of them, what they wanted, what they did to her?”
“Sometimes she'd tell me things.”
“She ever speak about me? Drugo Odell. She ever mention that name?”
“No.”
“You're a liar.”
“Could be she did one time. I don't remember.”
“Remember this, I'll kill you if you don't tell me.” Sweat beaded on Odell's forehead under the rim of his bowler hat and a mad light filled his feline eyes
Alva was scared, very afraid. Sarah had told her about Drugo Odell, what he did to her and she'd said, “One day he'll kill me or I'll kill him.” And Alva had seen the little gunman before, on the night Sarah had died. That fact scared her most of all.
Alma took a deep breath. “She said you beat her, stuffed her mouth with cotton, and whipped her with a leather belt.”
“And what else?”
“She said you always held a knife to her throat when you screwed her. She said you told her that one time you'd use the knife, but she'd never know when. You said you'd ram it between her tits and hold her so you could watch her die. She said you were loco, wrong in the head, and that she'd bought a .32 for protection. She said you scared her worse than the devil himself and that after this cattle season she was going to run away, head out on a train for Chicago. I asked her to leave right then, but she needed money for her fare and to live in Chicago for a while. She said the Colt she'd bought would protect her if you cut up rough again. I told her that if she shot you, I'd help her dump the body somewhere. And Sarah said, âAlva, maybe it won't come to that. I know a gentleman who'll protect me from Drugo.' Well, I guess when the chips were down that gentleman didn't protect her worth a damn.”
Odell shoved his gun back into the shoulder holster, stared at the woman for long moments, and then backhanded her across the face. “Why didn't you tell me all this earlier? What kind of person are you?”
A trickle of blood ran from the corner of Alva's mouth. “I was afraid to tell you.”
Odell's hand moved up the slope of the woman's shoulder and then to her neck. He gently placed his thumb on her throat and said, “Tell me about the night Sarah Hollis died. Tell me what you saw when you came out back to show the cowboy the outhouse.” The gunman smiled. “Tell me about that, Alva. I promise, if you do I won't hurt you real bad.”
“I didn't see anything. It was dark. Too dark.”
Odell increased his thumb pressure and the woman made a small, gagging sound in her throat.
“What did you see, Alva?”
“You ... I saw you. I didn't tell the sheriff. I knew if I told the sheriff you'd come around here and kill me.”
“Well that's bad news, Alva. For you, I mean. I can't let you live. You could put a noose around my neck.”
“I won't tell, Drugo.” The woman was terrified and it showed in her eyes. “Honest, I won't sell you out. I'll leave Dodge today, go far away, to the Indian Territory maybe. I got kinfolk live with the Choctaw and they'll take me in.”
“Way too thin, Alva. I can't take the chance.”
“Drugo, you can depend on me.” Alva placed her hand on Odell's cheek. “You can trust me to carry the gate key.”
Odell smiled. “Trust a black? Not in this lifetime.”
The gunman was small and looked almost frail, but that was deceptive. He had considerable strength in his gun hand, the one that squeezed Alva's throat. The woman was big and robust and she struggled, but Odell's hand was like a vise. He throttled the life out of her and when it was done, he looked down at her sprawled body and smiled.
“Dead women tell no tales, Alva. The Choctaw would have told you that.” Odell giggled. He enjoyed killing. It made him feel good inside. Like vanilla ice cream.
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
“Shall we take a stroll and see the sights?” Kate said.
Her son Trace pushed his plate away. “After finishing every scrap of this porterhouse I could use a walk.”
She looked at her
segundo
. “What about you, Frank?”
“Sets fine with me.” Frank smiled at Trace. “I'd rather clothe you for a year than feed you for a month.”
“He's a growing boy, Frank,” Kate said. “And you did all right yourself.”
“Good grub in this hotel, Kate. Surprised me.”
“Then shall we go?” Kate dabbed her mouth with her napkin and rose to her feet. “It sounds quite lively outside tonight.”
When she and the others stepped out of the hotel into Front Street she was proved correct. Every saloon and dance hall was bursting at the seams and the melodies from competing pianos tangled in the air like strands of silver barbed wire. Brightly lit windows cast rectangles of orange light onto the boardwalks and gleamed on the muddy street like wet paint. Cowboys were everywhere, the huge rowels of their Texas spurs chiming like bells.
Kate stopped to talk with a street vendor, an elderly woman with black, Gypsy eyes. She wore an embroidered shawl and said she hailed from County Cork and had lived in the United States since the Great Famine.
“And what are those you're selling?” Kate said.
The old woman said they were called butterfly cakes and were a great favorite of old Queen Vic.
“Now that's a coincidence. I bake a sponge cake that's also one of her favorites.”
The old woman nodded. “Milk, butter, flour, and eggs. That's what you need for a sponge cake.”
“And fresh cream and jam for the filling.”
“Indeed that is so,” the old woman said. “You're a beautiful woman, lady, but you've had sorrow in your life. I can see it in your eyes. Well, here's a cure for sorrow. Have one of my butterfly cakes with my compliments and for the sake of the auld country.”
The little cake had two arcs of pastry placed into the cream topping and Kate ate it delicately and declared it wonderful. She insisted on paying the woman and then she bowed her head as the old lady made the sign of the cross over her and said her blessing would protect Kate from harm.
As they continued their stroll along the boardwalk Frank said, “I guess I should tell you that you've got a blob of cream at the tip of your nose.”
“I'll get it, Ma.” Trace stood in front of Kate and used a corner of his bandana to get the cream off her nose . . . and in doing so, he took the bullet intended for his mother.
* * *
Trace Kerrigan cried out as the bullet burned across his shoulder blades and shattered an oil lamp burning outside an apothecary. A river of flame immediately ran down the wall and spread across the boardwalk. Illuminated by fire, Trace ignored his wound and pulled his mother to a crouching position. Colt in hand, Frank had already sprinted across Front Street to an alley opposite. The sound of gunfire was not rare in Dodge City, but a curious crowd gathered on the boardwalk and surrounded Kate and her wounded son. Calls for Sheriff Hinkle and a doctor rang out and a man and woman from the apothecary beat at the oil lamp flames with straw brooms.
Frank knew better than to run into an alley where an armed would-be assassin lurked. He slowed to a walk and entered on cat feet, his eyes reaching into the darkness. The moon splashed an opalescent light on the top half of the store wall to his left, but the end of the alley was shadowed. He moved forward slowly, his gun up and ready.
From behind him, a man yelled, “Hey, what's going on there?”
Immediately, a rifle roared like rolling thunder in the narrow confines of the alley and chips of wood splintered from the timber wall inches above Frank's right shoulder. He was dazzled by the flash of the rifle but he fired, fired again. Ahead of him, a man cried out in pain and shock, followed by the sound of dragging feet.
Frank went after him, his boots clanking on the empty whiskey bottles that littered the alley floor.
The man at the entrance to the alley yelled again. “Here, stop the shooting!”
Frank thought he sounded drunk and ignored him.
The alley ended at the blank wall of a warehouse of some kind. Passageways led to the left and right, but a rickety tower of packing cases blocked the one to the right. Frank moved to his left. Between the rear of the store and the wall of the warehouse, the passageway was narrow, only a few feet wide. Ahead of him he heard a curse and a shadow moved awkwardly, as though a man had tripped and stumbled forward. Frank snapped off a shot, aware that he could have fired on some drunk who'd wandered onto the scene. He heard a grunt.
A man's voice said, “For God's sake, mister, don't shoot me no more.”
“State your intentions.”
“Damn it, I'm shot through and through. I don't have any intentions.”
“Drop the rifle and step forward,” Frank said. “And I warn you, I can drill ya from here.”
“Hell, I can't walk. I'm dying here. I need a priest.” The man's voice was weak, barely a whisper heard in darkness. “You've done for me.”
“Stay right where you are. I see any sign of a fancy move from you, pardner, I'll cut loose.”
A louder voice came from behind him. “Don't shoot, Cobb. It's Sheriff Hinkle.”
Footsteps sounded as the lawman emerged from the gloom. He held a scattergun in his hands. “Mrs. Kerrigan said somebody took a pot at her son. He got burned across the back, but he'll be all right.”
“I think the shot was intended for Kate,” Frank said. “She's been prying into Sarah Hollis's murder and somebody in this town wants her dead. I plugged the shooter and he's laying wounded right there ahead of us. Maybe he'll tell us something.”
“Is he out of it?” Hinkle said.
“He says so.”
“Never trust a wolf till it's skun, Cobb. You ever hear that before?”
“Yeah, I have. All right. Let's take a look. Keep the Greener handy.”
As Hinkle walked forward, his hands opening and closing on the shotgun, he said, “Any chance Mrs. Kerrigan might consider leaving Dodge real soon? And if that sounds hopeful, it is.”
“She's got the bit in her teeth over Hank Lowery,” Frank said. “Once she proves him innocent, she'll leave.”
“Then I'll hang him sooner than I planned.” Hinkle turned and yelled, “One of you men bring a lantern up here.” And then to Frank, “Then we'll go see who the hell you shot and hope he ain't a friend of mine.”
* * *
Reaching the wounded man, Hinkle took a knee beside him and held the lantern high.
“Recognize him?” Frank said.
“Uh-uh. Never seen him before. What's your name, feller?”
“Am I gonna die, Sheriff?” the man said.
“Seems like,” Hinkle said. “You got two chest wounds and one of your lungs is sucking air. Best you make your peace with God.”
“My name is Adam Cook. I was born and raised on a farm north of here before I fell in with low companions and came to this pass.”
“Who told you to shoot Kate Kerrigan,” Frank said.
“Man paid me fifty dollars to do for her. I followed her from the hotel and got my chance when she stopped to buy a cake. But the light was so bad in this alley I couldn't rightly see the gun sights.”
“Who paid you to kill a woman?” Frank said.
“A man . . . Sheriff. My name is Adam Cook. Will you remember it? Say it sometimes so I'm not forgotten like I never even was?”
“I'll see there's a marker on your grave with your name on it,” Hinkle said. “I'll have the undertaker carve it twice. Now who paid you to kill Mrs. Kerrigan?”
“Man . . . big man . . . fifty dollars . . .”
After a few moments of silence, Hinkle said, “He's gone.” He rose to his feet and his knees cracked. “You shot a rube, Cobb. Seems a shame to bury him in them rags he's wearing. It ain't decent.”
Frank looked around him and found the dead man's rifle. It was a model 1876 Winchester in .45-70 caliber that would cost a puncher a month's wages.
“He's wearing rags, but he carried an expensive rifle,” Frank said. “Find out who gave him this rifle and you'll discover the ranny who paid to have Kate murdered. I reckon it's the same man who killed Sarah Hollis.”
“Hell, Cobb, now you sound like Mrs. Kerrigan,” Hinkle said.
“Yeah, I do because after tonight I'm inclined to agree with her. You'll do what you promised for Adam Cook?”
“Hell no, Cobb. A promise to a dead man doesn't mean a thing. You know what a marker costs in Dodge?”
“How much?”
“With his name on it twice, at least twenty dollars.”
Frank reached into his pocket and by the light of Hinkle's lantern counted out a twenty and a ten. “That will pay for it. If there's any left over, put some flowers on the grave, huh?”
“You sure put stock in a dead man,” Hinkle said.
“Hell, he was only a rube.”