Journey into Violence (22 page)

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-THREE

“You're very lucky, Mr. Cobb,” Dr. Ada Jordan said. “A couple inches to the right and I'm afraid you would not live.”

“Well that's cheerful news, Doc,” Frank said. “What's the damage? It hurts like hell.”

“The bullet passed clean through, and the wounds look worse than they are. I've cleaned them and used alcohol to prevent infection. You're young and strong, and you'll heal quickly.”

Frank looked at the bandage tight around his middle. “Clip Hornage is dead, huh?”

The doctor's face was stiff. “There was nothing I could do for him.”

“And Ranger Brewster?”

“He'll recover, but I don't think he'll ever gain full mobility of his left shoulder.”

“He shoots off his right shoulder, so that's good,” Frank said.

“Yes, good news for him, I suppose.” Dr. Jordan's pretty face revealed nothing.

The surgery door opened and Kate stepped inside. Her hair hung over her shoulders in damp ringlets and a few tumbled over her forehead. She wore a calico dress that fitted her well and she smelled of lavender water. “How are my patients, Doctor?”

“The Ranger is sleeping off the effects of the ether, and Mr. Cobb will live to fight another day.”

Kate ignored the irony in the physician's tone. “How did it happen, Frank?”

Frank's immediate answer was, “Kate, Jesse Dobbs was in the Last Chance Saloon. I'm sure it was him. Two of his boys came in later.”

“That would be Ben Lucas and Bob Corcoran,” Kate said.

Frank winced as he put on his shirt. “How do we play this? I mean what are your intentions, Kate?”

Dr. Jordan said, “I guess I should leave and let you two talk.”

“No, stay,” Kate said. “My intentions are no secret. I plan to see Lucas and Corcoran stand trial for kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder. Then I'll hang them.”

“What about Jesse Dobbs?” Frank said.

“He'll hang with them.”

Dr. Jordan said, “Mrs. Kerrigan—”

“Please call me Kate.” She smiled. “I'm wearing your clothes and that makes us almost kin.”

“Kate, there are Pinkertons in town. Why not let them deal with the outlaws?”

“Pinkertons. Are you sure?”

“Three of them. I treated one for a spider bite. I remember he was annoyed because he said his trigger finger was swollen up like a sausage.”

Kate, aware that Brewster was out of commission, possibly for weeks, and Frank was wounded, seized on an opportunity to recruit allies. “They'll be at the hotel. Do you know their names?”

“The one I treated was called Bernard Rigby. He mentioned the given names of the two with him as Byron and Arch. They're all young men and seemed very capable.”

“Then I'll go talk with them. I can use their help.”

Frank said, “Kate, why would there be Pinkertons in Eagle Pass?”

“I'm sure I don't know.”

“They're here because Jesse Dobbs is in town. You can bet the farm that the army hired them to recover the stolen payroll.”

“Well, that's all to the good, Frank. Isn't it?”

“All the Pinkertons want is the money back. I don't think they'll have any interest in helping you arrest Dobbs or anybody else.”

“We'll discuss that when I meet them,” Kate said. “I will insist they give me the help I need or their superiors will hear about it. In short, I will not take no for an answer. That is out of the question. Ada . . . may I call you Ada? Can Ranger Brewster remain here until we return?”

The doctor smiled. “Of course. He's a model patient . . . when he's unconscious.”

* * *

Kate reserved a couple rooms at the hotel, one for herself and the other for her wounded warriors to share. She then asked the desk clerk if Mr. Bernard Rigby was in residence.

“I'm afraid you just missed him, Mrs. Kerrigan.” The clerk was young and eager to please the beautiful lady, and the light of adoration radiated from him. Frank, hurting and in a foul mood, disliked him on sight.

“Where has he gone?” Kate said.

“He and the other Pinkertons, Mr. Buchanan and Mr. Poole, rode out an hour ago on urgent business. They carried rifles, so something is afoot.”

“How did you know they were Pinkertons?” Frank said, his face sour.

The clerk smiled. “The whole town knows. What we don't know is why they're here.” The young man leaned closer and whispered, “There's talk that they're after a fortune in gold bars stolen from a bank in Austin.” He straightened and tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “But you didn't hear that from me.”

“Did the Pinkertons say where they were headed?” Kate said.

“They didn't say, but old Mr. McKinney in room twenty-three said he saw three riders headed north and they looked like the Pinkertons.”

“Frank, do you feel like riding?”Kate said.

“No.”

“But I need your scouting ability should I lose their tracks.”

“Kate, if the Pinkertons are after Jesse Dobbs and the payroll, let them shoot it out. Later, we can pick up the bodies.”

“And be cheated of my justice, Frank? No. I want Lucas and Corcoran alive. And Jesse Dobbs.” She sighed with considerable drama. “Oh, very well then, I'll go by myself.”

“I can ride,” Frank said. His shoulders slumped.

Kate smiled. “I knew you would say that, Frank. You're my knight in shining armor.”

No, I'm not, Kate. My armor is rusted from my blood.
Frank thought that, but he didn't say it.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FOUR

Two words recently carved into a scrap of wood taken from the bed of a long-abandoned wagon had attracted the attention of the Pinkertons.

Frank read the tracks. Three men wearing shoes, not boots, had stood around the grave and one of them had toed a shallow depression in the sand and rock to see what lay underneath. A scrap of homespun cloth, probably from a shirtsleeve, poked above the surface, and the stench of death hung in the air like a poisonous fog.

“Like it says, there's a dead man here,” Frank said. “The Pinkertons stayed for a while and then rode on.”

Kate stood in the stirrups and shaded her eyes, studying the sun-blasted rock and cactus wilderness around her. “There's dust to the northwest, Frank.”

“Probably Jesse Dobbs and his boys. And the Pinkertons, but for the time being they're holding back.”

“Why? What's going on?” she said.

Frank climbed stiffly into the saddle. “My guess is the Pinks hope Dobbs will lead them to the stolen payroll and then they'll force his hand . . . the money in exchange for letting him live.”

“But Dobbs won't lead them to the money,” Kate said. “He can see the Pinkertons are right behind him.”

“Kate, I don't know who those three big-city boys are, but they seem mighty confident. Look at the dust. They're not following Dobbs, they're catching up. They stopped at the dead man's grave and let Dobbs and his men get ahead of them. They'll surprise the hell out of him with a sudden attack, drop a couple men in the first volley, and force the survivors to lead them to the payroll.”

“Frank, that's thin. I don't think—” A sudden rattle of gunfire stilled Kate's tongue.

Frank said, “Well, it's started. Now we light a shuck.”

“Have they seen us?”

“I don't know. But right now they've got other things on their mind.”

The gunfire was constant as mounted men exchanged shots in a cloud of dust.

“Kate, as I told you, we'll pick up the pieces. Right now I'm in no shape for a gunfight.”

“I hope Lucas and Corcoran survive,” Kate said. “My business with those two is not yet done.”

Frank swung his horse around. “Time will tell, Kate. Time will tell.”

* * *

Even with a gray tinge under his tanned skin and his shoulder under a fat bandage obviously paining him, JC Brewster was still a Texas Ranger. Enduring bullet wounds without complaining came with the job. He sat up in the hotel bed while Kate spooned him beef broth, blithely ignoring Frank's muttered comments about his own wound and how much it hurt.

She dabbed Brewster's mustache with a napkin. “There, that will help you regain your strength.”

Frank built a cigarette, lit it, and stepped over to the bed. “I don't know why I'm doing this,” he said as he stuck the smoke between Brewster's lips.

“I do,” the ranger said. “It's because you're such a fine human being, Frank, a Southern gentleman to your fingertips.”

“Don't count on it,” Frank said. “You roll the next one yourself.”

Kate said, “Frank, be kind. JC is wounded.”

An obvious retort was on the tip of Frank's tongue, but he didn't make it. He strolled to the window and stared into a street lit only by the oil lamps that hung outside the stores and other commercial buildings. The result was a strange orange-tinted twilight that never reached the alleys where the black shadows crouched.

Brewster said, “Now, do you want to tell me what the hell is happening and why you took a woman with you to trail some mighty dangerous characters?”

“It was my idea,” Kate said. “I thought the Pinkertons would make arrests and I'd force them to surrender Ben Lucas and Bob Corcoran into my custody, but it wasn't that simple.”

“Tell me what happened out there,” Brewster said.

Kate described the Pinkertons' slow chase in pursuit of Jesse Dobbs and his boys and the subsequent gunfire. “I've no idea what took place next. We thought it prudent to leave.”

Brewster absorbed that and then said, “Those Pinkertons aren't detectives. They're strikebreakers and strong-arm men, sap and billy club bullies paid by rich men to threaten and terrify the starvation-wage slaves that toil for them. I've met those kinds of Pinkertons before. They come down from the big cities up north and reckon they can do in Texas what they've done in Detroit or Chicago and a dozen other towns. But you can bet your bottom dollar they learned a lesson today . . . that Western men like Jesse Dobbs don't terrify worth a damn.”

“Rider just came in,” Frank said. “He stopped in the middle of the street and he's drawing a crowd.”

“Is he a Pinkerton or Jesse Dobbs?” Brewster said.

“Hard to tell, but I think he's wearing a bowler hat.”

“Frank, help me up. I got to go down there and find out what happened.”

Kate said, “You will stay right where you are, Ranger Brewster. You're too weak to stand. I will not allow you out of bed.”

“Frank, give me my hat.”

“Don't you dare, Frank Cobb,” Kate said.

“Here's your hat, JC,” Frank said. “Now you're properly dressed.”

“Help me,” Brewster said.

Frank steadied the Ranger as he crossed the floor, passed the fuming Kate, and grabbed his boots. He sat on the bed and pulled them. “Get me the slicker over there in the corner with my saddle and bedroll.”

“I will not be held responsible for your well-being if you go out into the street in your underwear, Ranger Brewster,” Kate said. “I am adamant on that.”

Frank helped Brewster into the slicker. “I guess he's going, Kate.”

“I guess I am.” Brewster buckled his gun belt over his long johns and stepped to the door.

“Then we'll go with you,” Kate said. “You're a stubborn, headstrong man, JC. I've never known the like.”

* * *

The hour was late, the night dark, and Eagle Pass was not Dodge City. Few people were on the street, and the crowd gathered around the man on the horse numbered only a dozen.

“Texas Ranger, make way there,” JC Brewster said. “Has this man identified himself?”

“Only in hell, Ranger. He's dead,” said a portly man with a red face.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Brewster saw that the rider was indeed dead, as dead as a bullet through the center of his forehead could make him. The corpse sat stiff and upright in the saddle, hands on the reins, shadows gathered in the hollows of his eyes and cheeks. He had a placid, almost peaceful expression on his face as though he'd died instantly without ever realizing it had happened.

“You men, get him down from there,” Brewster said. “And somebody take the horse away.”

The dead man was laid out on the street and his coat fell open, revealing his Pinkerton badge.

“Where are the other two?” Kate said.

“I guess we'll find out come morning,” Brewster said. “I'll ride out to where you and Frank heard the gunfight.”

A woman who'd arrived on the scene said, “Does that poor man need a doctor?”

“No, he needs an undertaker. Who does such work in Eagle Pass?”

“That would be Charlie Gill,” the portly man said. “I'll go get him.”

Frank saw Kate suddenly stare into space, her face troubled. He took her arm and said, “Kate, you look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Yes . . . maybe I have. Frank, I think I know where the army payroll is buried.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FIVE

“I sure hope the nag can see in the dark,” JC Brewster said.

“She's doing all right,” Kate said. “The moonlight helps.”

The Ranger, in pain and irritated, scowled at the equally pained and irritated Frank. “Do you need all that room for your legs?”

“It's a small wagon,” Frank said. “I got to put them someplace.”

“Why didn't you bring your hoss?” Brewster said.

“Because he's all used up, like me.”

“Damn it all, Frank. You could have taken mine,” Brewster said, stretching his legs.

“No I couldn't,” Frank said. “I never took to riding twenty-dollar mustangs.”

“That's because you ain't a Ranger. A Ranger can ride anything with hair on it.”

“Damn it, JC. You kicked me,” Frank said.

“It was an accident. There's no room in the back of this wagon.”

“It's all I could get at the livery,” Kate said. “You boys stop squabbling like children. We'll soon be there.”

“Why does that mare keep stumbling?” Brewster said. “Pains my shoulder every time.”

“Because she's old,” Kate said. “But she's got eyes like a hawk in the dark.”

Moonlight lay on the surrounding terrain like a frosting of snow and the coolness of early fall was in the air. There were no animal or night bird sounds, only the steady
clop-clop
of the horse and the iron-shod rumble of the wagon wheels. The sound of metal on rock made Frank think about the Tin Man back in Dodge, and he wondered idly if he'd ever completely recovered from the bullet Kate had put into his vitals. Probably not. His boiler must have burst.

“Frank, I think we're getting close,” Kate said.

“Good. Stop the rig and I'll walk ahead with the lamp.” He clambered out of the wagon, ignored Brewster's agonized protests, and retrieved the lamp from Kate, who had stored it under the driver's seat. It was only then that he realized how much the wound in his side had weakened him. His head reeled and pain gnawed at him like a living thing.

“Frank, are you all right?” Kate said, alarm lifting her voice.

“I'm fine. Real good.” He held the lantern high in his left hand, pulled his Colt, and stepped in front of the mare. “Never better.”

“Can you see anything?” Kate said.

“Not much,” Frank said. “I'll walk ahead for a spell and then you come after me.”

Brewster said, “Hell, it's getting darker, Frank. You be careful.”

“Could be fixing to rain,” Frank said. “I'll be fine with the lamp.” The sound of his feet crunching on sand and rock grew dimmer and then was gone, but the bobbing orange orb of the lamp glowed in the distance.

“Follow him, Kate,” Brewster said. “I got my Winchester handy.”

“You think Jesse Dobbs could still be around?” Kate said.

“I don't know. I don't know what could be around here, and that includes boogermen.”

Kate's laugh made music in the quiet. “I didn't know Texas Rangers were scared of boogermen.”

“You'd be surprised how many things scare us,” Brewster said. “But most times we get un-scared pretty damn fast.”

From ahead came a cry from the darkness.

“Kate! Come quick!”

“All right. Now I'm scared again,” Brewster said.

* * *

The lamp above his head, Frank stood in a shifting cone of amber light, an open grave at his feet and a dead man on the ground behind him.

Kate stopped the wagon, but the mare, disturbed by the smell of the corpse, whinnied and reared in the traces. Arcs of white shone in her eyes. Kate jumped from the seat, grabbed the horse's browband and reins, and spoke soothing words to the scared animal. As soon as the mare settled a little, Kate led her away from the grave and the smell of death.

Brewster limped out the rear and indignantly said, “Did you forget about me?”

“Sorry, I didn't have time to rescue you,” Kate said. “Are you all right?”

“Apart from being shot through and through I'm just fine, I guess.”

“You were right, Kate. They buried the money under a dead man,” Frank saidt. “And now they've reclaimed it.”

Brewster peered at the corpse that had been torn from the grave. After a while, he said, “I know him. That's Zeb Magan, ran with Jesse Dobbs and them. Looks like they shot him and then tossed him on top of the money sacks, figuring no one would disturb a grave.”

“Except resurrectionists like us,” Kate said. “But we were too late.”

“Jesse must be in Eagle Pass by now,” Brewster said. “Or he's already crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico.”

“Maybe not,” Kate said. Frank and Brewster stared at her in the hazy orange lamplight.

“When Corcoran and Lucas helped Dobbs recover the money, they didn't know I'd escaped from Tilly Madison. As far as they're concerned, I'm still at the cabin. Those animals wouldn't pass up the chance to sell Kate Kerrigan in Mexico, so I'm certain they left here and headed for the Madison place.”

“When they saw you were gone, they probably headed south with Dobbs,” Brewster said.

“But there's a chance they decided to spend the night at the cabin,” Kate said. “I want to go there.”

“You sure got it in for those boys, Kate,” Brewster said.

“If they were outlaws who happened to steal an army payroll, I could forgive them, but they talked about selling me in Mexico and discussed raping me. That I cannot forgive.” Kate stepped to the wagon, removed a shovel, and returned to the grave. “I can't let this man lie unburied. I'll say proper prayers for the dead later.” Frank extended his hand for the shovel, but Kate shook her head. “No, you and JC are too stove up. I'll do it.”

She dragged Magan's body into the grave and then began to shovel dirt. Her lips moved in a silent prayer.