Deadman's Revenge (The Deadman Series Book 3)

  Deadman’s Revenge

  by

  Linell Jeppsen

  © Copyright 2014 Linell Jeppsen (as revised)

  Wolfpack Publishing

  48 Rock Creek Road

  Clinton, Montana 59825

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-62918-256-8

  Table of Contents:

  Forward

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  An Excerpt from Lucky Chance

  About the Author

  Forward

  Two children ran into the dugout yelling, “Mama, Mama! The man is sick, maybe dead!”

  Unbeknownst to them, their father was home from tilling the fields early and they came to a skidding stop on the dirt floor, sending up small plumes of dust. Both of them stared at their feet, knowing they were caught barehanded doing something they had been forbidden to do.

  Eight-year-old Toby Ferguson gulped and placed his hands on his buttocks, which were already warming up in anticipation of his pa’s belt. His little sister, Susan, sniffed back tears as, indeed, her father had stood up from the edge of his bed and was pulling his belt out from the loops of his dungarees.

  “Pull your britches down, son” Joseph Ferguson sighed. His back was paining him something fierce after his draft horse had spooked sideways from the rattled warning of a dozing snake. He had called his plowing quits for the day in hopes that his muscles wouldn’t tighten up from the strain of keeping the horse from bolting and the last thing he felt like doing now was disciplining his wayward children. Rules were rules though, and his kids had just broken one of them.

  Toby sighed and tried to keep from crying… he didn’t want to look like a sissy in front of Susan. Still, his pa’s belt, on those occasions it fell across his tender bottom, stung like fire and usually raised welts that would throb for days.

  His ma, Ann Ferguson, watched from across the room. Her husband brooked no nonsense from their children, but she knew Joseph loved them dearly and would do no lasting harm. Still, she felt sorry for the kids as their neighbor, Mr. Wilcox, was a fascinating character who had won their hearts with his grave courtesy and occasional treats like hard rock candy, wooden figurines and once, a handmade slingshot which was now Toby’s most prized possession.

  That was before he had become so angry, aloof and frankly, frightening. They had known the man for the better part of a year now and had only recently put a stop to their children’s visits. Joseph had begun to suspect that the man might be some sort of outlaw, although Ann thought there was more to it than that. Nevertheless, she didn’t doubt that he was a dangerous man and one her children had no business dealing with.

  The boy bent over and grasped his ankles even as his sister gulped back tears of shame. Joseph drew his belt up high in order to give his son’s butt a smart lick but Susan cried out, “Pa… wait!”

  Of his two children, Susan was the most obedient and it was almost unheard of for her to try to interfere with her papa’s discipline. Joseph raised his eyebrows and let the belt drop. Studying his six-year-old daughter’s worried face he said, “I’ll hear you out, Sis, but don’t think I’m going to change my mind.”

  The little tow-headed girl shook her head. “No sir, we know, but before you give us our spankin’s, we just wanted to tell you we never went down to Mr. Wilcox’s house. We were playing close by, though, hoping Trickster might come and play with us but all he did was howl and howl! That’s when we went up on the rise behind Mr. Wilcox’s house and saw him a laying by the well. We think he might be dead!”

  With those words, Susan’s cornflower blue eyes filled and she burst into tears. Joseph and Ann looked into each other’s faces and then, without a word, she stood up and started gathering what little medicinal supplies remained in her meager stores.

  Joseph looked down at his son, who still stood hunched over with his bare bottom in the air. “Stand up, Toby. I guess your whipping will have to wait.”

  “Yes sir…thank you sir!” Toby gasped and pulled his pants back up.

  A few minutes later, the little family rode their wagon through their own fields and up an overgrown and rocky trail toward their reclusive neighbor’s log cabin.

  ~

  Matthew woke up with his face in the mud. His dog, a mixed-breed descendent of his beloved wolf Bandit, whined and nuzzled his owner’s ear in anxiety.

  Groaning, he sat up and gazed about with swollen, dazzled eyes. What am I doing here? he wondered uneasily and then he commenced to coughing. He coughed so hard his stomach almost turned inside out but he couldn’t get any air. Willing himself to stillness and trying not to wheeze, Matthew made himself breath slowly through his nose.

  Feeling somewhat relieved with the thin but blessed oxygen, he realized that he had pneumonia and had been stricken for days on end. He had been in the grip of fever, as well, and alternately sweated and shook with chill or lie thrashing on his rumpled blankets, delirious with fever.

  Sometime in the last few hours, he had run out of drinking water and tried to bring a bucket up from his well, but he figured he must have passed out in the attempt. Trickster reached out his long muzzle and licked his human’s cheek.

  Matthew tried to pet his dog but he was weak and as shaky as a newborn colt. His arm dropped and he sighed. Staring down at his britches, Matthew frowned. They were filthy and stained and somehow, he had lost his socks.

  Looking away in disgust as another wave of chills racked his bones; he leaned over sideways and tried using his hands and elbows to rise to his feet. It took two tries but finally, Matthew got his feet under him and staggered upright. Hearing an anxious whine, he looked down and saw his dog standing close by his side.

  The animal was quite tall at the shoulders and Matthew was able to use Trickster’s head as a makeshift crutch. Moaning softly, he and the dog moved slowly onto the front stoop and into the cabin.

  Once inside, Matthew pitched, face first, on to his rumpled cot. He managed to pull his feet up onto the bed and then he fell, shuddering, into the swirling red mist of dream… and nightmare.

  ~

  Trickster whined and placed his long white teeth on Matthew’s left hand. He clamped down gently, trying to pull his master into wakefulness. Failing, he sat on his haunches, staring at his master’s face and panting with worry. He stayed like that for a while and then stood up and paced back and forth by the side of the bed. Then, he whirled around, facing the cabin’s open door.

  Growling deep in his throat, the fur on his neck and back rose in alarm. Lowering his large, square head, he stalked to the front door and stared out at the approaching wagon. His so
ft growl rose in volume and he moved out onto the dirt, snarling.

  “Whoa… whoa,” Joseph Ferguson pulled back on the reins and his draft horse settled to a stop about twenty-five feet from the snarling dog. Then, as if just realizing the threat, the horse jinked sideways in its traces, spooky and white-eyed. “Knock it off, damn you!” Joseph yelled, the muscles in his back throbbing from its earlier assault by this same nervous nag.

  Trickster’s ears rose up as he recognized the people who approached—especially the little ones. Playing with these children was one of the dog’s principal joys and suddenly, he knew what to do. Moving swiftly out into the front yard, he ran up to little Susan and seized her wrist in his teeth, carefully tugging her toward the cabin.

  Ann let out a soft scream of fright, but she saw that her daughter was not hurt or even scared. The huge, wolf-like dog was simply leading Susan and her brother toward the house. “Don’t go all the way inside!” she instructed the children.

  Grabbing her basket of medicinals, she heard Joseph say, “Be careful, wife. That dog could turn on you…”

  She nodded. “I don’t think it will, Joseph. It’s just worried for its master. The children and I will take care, though.” Then she climbed down off the wagon and walked slowly up the stairs. Peering inside the darkened interior, she wrinkled her nose against the sour odor of sickness and despair.

  Ann was half Crow Indian—a fact that caused her both great pride and searing agony. She had attended the white-man school in north Idaho, and suffered under her fellow student’s taunts and ridicule. She had learned, firsthand, the pain of prejudice. So, when Joseph came along and asked her to be his wife, Ann had fled her tormentors and never looked back.

  She did not, however, leave her family’s legacy behind. She was the niece of one of the tribe’s greatest medicine men, Turkey Feather. Although taking a young girl as an apprentice was considered scandalous, her uncle had flouted tradition and taught Ann much of what he knew. From herbal remedies to the recognition of and communication with all manner of spirits, Turkey Feather poured his life’s work into the young girl’s heart and soul.

  That was why she used caution now. Stepping up to the front door, Ann turned both of her kids around and instructed them to stay outside with their father until she called for them. Not only because their neighbor might have succumbed to a communicable disease but also for the fact that, she sensed an evil presence inside the small, darkened interior. A foul spirit had taken up residence in Mr. Wilcox’ home—she could feel it in her very bones.

  Stopping just outside the front door she called for a flint and watched as her husband lit a small bundle of grass. Walking slowly toward her, Joseph bent over, shielding the flames with his body while she lit her sage stick on fire. Then, she put a damp, comfrey-laden rag over her mouth and holding the burning sage high in the air, entered the cabin.

  ~

  Matthew dreamed about the time his wolf, Bandit, had come to him one morning and took his wrist in his mouth. The wolf was old and grey now, content, usually, to sleep his days away in the shade of a tree. That particular morning, however, Bandit’s golden eyes were alight with joy and his whole body seemed to vibrate with excitement.

  Allowing the animal to lead him about a mile and a half away from the house, Matthew followed the wolf to a rocky outcropping. “What is it, Bandit?” he asked as the wolf stopped and wagged his tail, turning to look at what lie hidden in the rocks and then spinning in circles and yelping in excited impatience as he waited for his master to come and look.

  He heard them before he saw what had piqued Bandit’s interest. Matthew crept up slowly and saw three puppies tucked into a stony ledge. They were very young—perhaps only a couple of weeks old but their eyes were open, shining blue and gold in the sun.

  They tried to flee when they saw the huge, human looming over them but there was no place to go. They tumbled over one another and let out yelps of fright as Matthew hunkered down next to them. Bandit nosed them, snuffling noisily and began to lick them all over as they cried. Then, as if they remembered, all three animals ran toward the big wolf, squealing hungrily.

  They looked like Bandit—the same gray and tawny fur, the same black mask. But their noses were more blunt and their ears comically long and floppy. Rubbing his pet’s head, Matthew murmured, “Why you old rascal, Bandit. You went and got yourself some pups.”

  Bandit sat down, whining anxiously. Picking one of the pups up, Matthew saw that it was starving and there was a white scrim of dried saliva on its muzzle. Understanding the wolf’s anxiety suddenly, he realized that the puppies had been abandoned. Perhaps the bitch had been killed or just wandered off but these tiny pups would perish if he didn’t do something and quick.

  “Okay buddy, don’t worry… I’ve got ‘em.” Matthew tucked all three pups into his jacket and headed home, while the old wolf walked beside him—its tail going around and around in joyous circles.

  ~

  Suddenly, the happy dream turned to nightmare—as dreams sometimes do. Matthew’s smile turned into a grimace of fear as he heard a wolf snarl. The fever raging in his blood kept him from knowing that the sound was real—issued from the one pup he had chosen to keep out of the litter he had found so long ago. What Matthew thought he heard was Bandit’s snarl as he tried, in vain, to save his mistress.

  Matthew’s head rocked back and forth on his sweaty pillow and he moaned in denial. Having spent the last four months trying to forget what he had found on his living room floor that fateful day, and for the most part succeeding, his mind recoiled at the visions his fever visited upon him now.

  For months, revenge had been his cure to memory—the sights, sounds and smell of it filling his senses and washing clean the sight of his beloved wife lying in a pool of her own blood, while his twelve-year-old son, Chance, clung to his arm weeping in horror.

  Matthew now looked to his sweet dog, Trickster, to replace the sight of his old wolf whose dead body lie at Iris’ feet, riddled with bullet holes. Bandit’s long, yellow teeth were crusted with dried blood, though—a fact that caused his owner a fierce sense of pride. The criminals who had destroyed his world did not get away without losing some of their own blood, as well.

  Since then, Matthew had meted out his own brand of justice, submerging those horrid memories under a dark, red veil of fury. With wild abandon he allowed himself to become the thing he abhorred most in the world—an outlaw… a criminal, in order to forget his anguish but now those memories came roaring back, and he was as helpless to fight them now as he was able to protect his wife from harm, then.

  As Ann Ferguson approached cautiously, sage-stick held high, her blood ran cold as Mr. Wilcox sat up in his bed, stared blindly ahead and screamed one word… a word so fraught with love, desperation and sorrow, her heart ached as if she had been kicked by a mule.

  She stood stock-still and listened as Matthew screamed, “Iris!”

  Chapter 1

  Revenge~~ 1899

  In September of 1899, Earl Dickson walked out of Walla Walla State penitentiary after serving seven years for grand larceny, drug trafficking and attempted murder. He walked, alone, down the gravel path leading into and out of the prison gates, enduring catcalls and hissed imprecations from the guards stationed by the entrance.

  He gritted his teeth against the insults. He had made few friends inside those tall, brick walls. The guards feared him and the other inmates kept their distance as well. His narrow blue eyes and long, ropy arms spoke volumes to the men incarcerated with him. They sensed, instinctively, that although he came with no convenient handle like murderer, molester, sodomite or road agent, he was a dangerous man, just the same, who would kill, unprovoked, for the thrill of it.

  The only friend Earl did make while serving time for his crimes was a simpleton by the name of Josh Manning. Josh’s biggest crime was being born an imbecile and having an outlaw for a brother. Martin Manning depended on his idiot brother for everything from cooking dinner
and caring for the gang’s livestock… to taking the fall for their nefarious schemes gone wrong.

  Martin and most of his gang were all dead now… brought down in a Pinkerton-staged ambush in 1895. The agents had foiled the gangs attempted train robbery and while they milled about the scene afterward, counting the dead and retrieving anything of value left on the outlaw’s bodies for their bosses from the Union Pacific, they were amazed to see a fat man wander up with a number of horses in tow.

  Josh, who had been left behind, as usual, and not knowing what else to do, decided to go looking for his wayward brother and his friends. Knowing better than to leave the gang’s horseflesh unattended, he wandered right into the long arms of the law. Many of the Pinks were all for putting Joshua out of his misery (and taking whatever he possessed upon his person) but the agent-in-charge, an angry but deeply religious man named Murray Pike, called a halt to that notion and placed the bewildered young man under arrest.

  Josh suffered greatly in prison. He was abused, both physically and emotionally, until Earl Dickson took him under his wing. It took some time but, eventually, Joshua was like putty in Earl’s hands. If Earl said, “Say, Josh… that man over there… yes, that one with the splay eye. I want you to put an end to him—tonight, after lights out…” that was just what would happen.

  And, rightly so. Josh was a big man-overweight and out of shape but with the heavy, elastic muscles of youth under all the flab. Although his hazel eyes seemed dull, a sort of slow, cunning intelligence seethed behind his flaccid gaze, like a hidden but deadly undertow in a still pond.