Deadman's Revenge (The Deadman Series Book 3) Page 19

  Chapter 26

  Sniffing Out a Rat

  Matthew really didn’t know how exhausted he was until he finally found a hotel that would accept his dog as a guest, stabled his horse and walked slowly up the wide staircase to his room. Once inside, he put his valise in the corner of the room next to a highboy chest, unbuckled his holster, set his shotgun upright against the wall and fell onto the bed. Within seconds, he was sound asleep and didn’t wake until a light but persistent knocking finally roused him from his dreams.

  Trickster was growling where he lay on the small rag-rug by the side of the bed, and Matthew, despite his eyes being practically glued-shut with fatigue, arose quickly and found his pistol on top of the chest of drawers. Then he crept to the door and listened to two people… a man and a woman, engaged in a whispered argument.

  “You’re a damned fool, Jim!” the woman hissed.

  “Well, you’re no better, Jane. You say you just want to help, but I’m thinking you just want to flirt!” the man retorted.

  Matthew frowned. Could this be Martha Jane and Liver Eating Johnson at his door in the middle of the night? Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he said, “Hold up your knocking, you two. I’m awake.”

  “Now you done it…” Jim said, just as Matthew opened the door. Sure enough, Calamity Jane and Jim Johnson stood outside in the hallway. Both of them looked worse for wear and a pungent cloud of whiskey fumes wafted into the room.

  “Come in,” Matthew said and stepped aside to let them enter.

  Although both of his guests seemed inebriated, they were also deferent and timid now that they were in his hotel room. Johnson and Martha Jane sat down, he on a chair and she on the foot of Matthew’s bed. Trickster crept to Martha’s side and allowed her to stroke his ears.

  Matthew rubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to wake up and said, “How can I help you?”

  Martha and Jim both opened their mouths to speak, and Johnson glared. “Let me talk first, Jane, if you please!”

  Calamity Jane glared right back and then she shrugged. “Go ahead, then.”

  The man turned to Matthew. “Marshal, we came to you to report some crimes. I saw your badge and if I’m correct, you are a United States Marshal, which means you have jurisdiction most anywhere… am I right?”

  Matthew sighed. He really didn’t want to get involved in Billings, Montana affairs. For one thing, that was a good way to get in trouble with the local authorities. For another, often, criminals sometimes counted on a fresh set of ears when it came time to plead their own cases. Knowing that a local sheriff or deputy had inside (and sometimes, fatal) knowledge, crooks and ne’er-do-wells often sought outside legal aid and council to help their case.

  Still, he was awake now, and something about his two visitor’s expressions gave him pause. Thinking it wouldn’t hurt to hear their story, if nothing else, he leaned against the highboy and crossed his arms. “That’s right, Mr. Johnson… although, I usually don’t go poking my nose into other lawmen’s business, unless I am being paid to do so.”

  “Well, me and Jim got a couple of stories to tell about that asshole who runs the Little Haymaker Saloon!” Martha blurted and then blushed. “Sorry about my French, Marshal.”

  Matthew smiled. “That’s okay, Miss Canary. What has he done?”

  Johnson took over. “There have been a number of incidents this winter and spring, but mainly, I’ve been hearing talk about how O’Donnell has been knocking off his rivals… and their families… since he first got here. Lots of folks are so afraid, they won’t talk about their suspicions on a bet, but the stories I have heard are all the same…which has the ring of truth to it—to me, anyhow.”

  Although the marshal kept his face still, he agreed. Usually, if a story stayed the same, despite an embellishment here and there, the truth of the matter was plain to see. Nodding at Martha Jane who was bouncing up and down on the mattress with her hand in the air, he said, “Miss Canary, what have you heard?”

  “Oh, I heard plenty, Marshal, but I seed more!” she exclaimed.

  Matthew frowned. An eye witness to a crime… if Martha has actually seen O’Donnell perpetrating a crime, why hadn’t she reported it to the authorities? “What did you see, ma’am?”

  Calamity Jane sat up straight, seeming much more sober than just moments before. “Marshal, I get myself in trouble, sometimes. I don’t ever mean it to happen, but once in a while, usually after I’ve had too much hooch, I’ll get into a fix.” She sighed, and then stared up at him again.

  “Well, that’s just what happened about two months ago. I mixed it up with a couple of cowboys down at Sweeny’s Poker Palace. I know they was cheatin’ me and I said so, too, but I got booted outta there, anyway. It was pretty late at night, and I didn’t have no money and no place to sleep my load off so I headed out of town to a little hidey hole I use every now and again.”

  She sat still for a moment, lost in thought, until Johnson murmured, “Go on and tell the marshal what you saw, Martha.”

  She looked up again and said, “First thing I saw was two youngsters coming down off Pig Ridge. I knew them boys, too; Hans and Frederick Diener… they was William Diener’s oldest sons… and they was trying their hand at prospecting. I was just about to call out to them when I heard some riders approaching. That’s when I hunkered down behind the rocks. You never can tell who you might meet out on the prairie, Sir, so I’ve learned to be cautious.”

  Martha Jane Canary, who seemed to be as tough as rawhide, looked forlorn as she continued, “That’s when I spied O’Donnell and a couple of his boys ride up. Marshal, I could not hardly believe my eyes but I swear to you now, O’Donnell shot those two kids down in cold blood and took the boy’s gold nuggets right out of their saddlebags as I watched!”

  “O’Donnell was laughing his ass off,” she continued, “and he told one of his men—the same man he first rode into town with, to grab the kid’s gold. He done it, but the other man, a man I knew to be down on his luck, but decent enough, got scairt and started high-tailin’ it out of there. That’s when I saw O’Donnell take a bead on him and shoot poor old, Billy Guthrie right in the back.

  A tear rolled down Martha Jane’s weathered cheeks. “I know I ain’t no proper lady, Marshal, but Billie always treated me with respect—even when I was at my worst.” Wiping the errant tear away, she added, “I knowed Billie from way back when, and it wasn’t fair at all the way O’Donnell done him in!”

  Matthew frowned. “Did you report what you witnessed to the authorities, ma’am?”

  Martha glared, “No Sir, I did not. They hate me around here, because of… well, like I said, I got a history of civil disobedience around these parts. Still, even if I did, I suspect the law around here is just as scairt of O’Donnell as I am. I think they are just hoping that the man and his saloon will blow on outta here.”

  Being under the misconception that O’Donnell was an established element in Billings, Matthew raised an eyebrow. “How long, exactly, has O’Donnell been in Billings?”

  Johnson took over talking as Martha pulled a flask out of her vest pocket and wasted no time in refreshing her state of intoxication. “I have been out wood-hawking for the ferry-haulers the last year or so, but I heard that O’Donnell and his sidekick showed up in town about six months ago.

  Matthew stood up in agitation. His heart had started pounding in his chest as O’Donnell’s timeline suddenly clicked into place in his mind. “Tell me, what is the name of O’Donnell’s right-hand man?”

  Johnson rolled his eyes. “I don’t rightly know the kid’s sir name, Marshal, but his given name is Josh. Why… he is the same young scoundrel who was stovin’ Martha’s ribs, in this very afternoon!”

  Matthew felt like slapping his own face in frustrated anger. Of course, he thought. Something about the kid had struck Matthew as familiar, although he didn’t place it at the time. He had seen that face before— on a prison release sheet. There was a lot of dust and action going on ou
t in the street earlier, and Matthew hadn’t had the time to put two and two together in his mind. Now, though, he smiled. Hadn’t Talbot said that Earl Dickson was traveling with a simpleton by the name of Josh?

  Turning back to Johnson, Matthew asked, “Tell me, do you know Mr. O’Donnell’s full name?”

  Johnson shook his head, but Martha answered, “I do! I looked it up, once I saw what he done to those German boys and Billy Guthrie. His full name, if I ‘member correctly is, Allen Patrick O’Donnell.

  Matthew felt an electric tingle move up and down his spine. Allen PATRICK O’Donnell… he marveled, a very close match, indeed, to his old enemies name… Patrick Donnelly.

  Could it be, Matthew wondered, that somehow, Earl Dickson had gotten his mitts on Patrick’s money and fled here to Montana after killing Iris? He knew that a convicted felon sometimes sought revenge on the lawman who had brought him down, but they were not, usually, wealthy men.

  Still, if he remembered correctly, Earl was one of Donnelly’s right-hand men. It stood to reason, that if Patrick fell, Dickson might have a good idea where his boss had stashed his dough.

  Wide-awake now, Matthew stood up from where he had been leaning against the tall chest of drawers. “Listen, I have one more question. Is there anything… unusual about Mr. O’Donnell’s face?”

  Jane shook her head. “I ain’t never seed him up close, Marshal, but you have, Jim, haven’t you?”

  Johnson nodded, smiling. “Sounds like you might know a thing or two about our local hoodlum, Mr. Wilcox. Grant you, it was pretty dark and smoky in the saloon the one time I talked to him face to face, but I did notice O’Donnell has a number of scars all around his mouth and nose. In fact, for all that he’s a bit of a dandy, Allen O’Donnell looks like he went five rounds with a grizzly bear… and lost!”

  Matthew grinned and said, “I want to thank you, both of you, for bringing me this intelligence. I will do what I can to see that O’Donnell answers for his crimes.”

  His two visitors stood as well, but Johnson said, “Marshal, there was another reason we came to your room and interrupted your rest tonight.” He and Calamity Jane exchanged a look and the woman nodded. “Tell him, Jim,” she said.

  “Earlier this evening, when I was having a bite to eat at a place I like down the street from the Little Haymaker, I heard a couple of O’Donnell’s new hires talking.” Liver Eating Johnson stared up into Matthew’s eyes.

  “That’s when I heard them saying that the whole crew has been put on the look-out for a Washington State Marshal by the name of Matthew Wilcox. Seems that O’Donnell knows you’re in town and has put up a thousand dollar reward for the first man who can drop you in yer tracks!”

  To the reader;

  I want to stress that although I am making free use of two very real historical figures in this fictional story, there is nothing I have found that indicates Calamity Jane and Liver Eating Johnson ever knew each other, much less hung out together as friends.

  That being said… although by 1899, Billings boasted over 10,000 citizens, it still seems a secular place to me where people like Johnson and Canary might cross paths and might even have tipped a brew or two in friendship.

  At any rate, please pardon my licentiousness… it’s an occupational hazard of being an historical fiction writer!

  Chapter 27

  The Bum’s Rush

  Allen O’Donnell arose quite early. In truth, he had hardly slept a wink. His mind raced as he tried to trace his steps from the Walla Walla State penitentiary, to where he lived now. But none of his memories warned him of where or when he might have tripped up and left a witness to his crimes. (Of course, there was a rather alarming lapse of memory right after the wolf attack.)

  He remembered the doctor (vaguely), but for the life of him, he didn’t recall the man’s name or even where the sawbones had patched him up. He thought he remembered telling Josh to kill the man… then again, maybe he had just… “Bah!” he cried aloud, in frustration.

  Pacing back and forth across his office floor, he wanted to pull his hair out by the roots. Of course, he couldn’t because his head was shaved clean again. He stood at his window and gazed down on the street below. There were a few people up and about… shopkeepers opening their doors, a group of Indians huddled around a small burn barrel, one old drunk passed out on the boardwalk and a couple of whores walking arm in arm across the street.

  Allen wondered again, is the US Marshal just passing through, or is he here in search of me? Suddenly, he had a thought. There were five reputable hotels in the downtown area and two stables. Why not go and find out for myself?

  He would dress in his finest, he decided, and take the morning air. What was to stop him from inquiring after a new marshal in town? He would also visit the stables. The horse Wilcox was riding was memorable, after all. It was huge, for one thing but also spectacularly ugly; with its strawberry roan body, and red and white-freckled head, bulbous eyes and broom-tail. It would be easy enough to spot a horse like that.

  Once he found out where the marshal was at, Allen could set assassins on him, quick as a wink. If nothing else, he might be able to find out for himself if the marshal was just passing through. Galvanized into action, Allen washed his face and shaved, put some perfumed paste under his armpits and dressed in his best clothes.

  Downstairs, he startled Kyle Burley, the janitor, by asking for a cup of coffee. Kyle blushed and said, “Why, I ain’t made a pot yet, boss! You want me to?”

  Allen frowned and shrugged. “Nah, I’ll stop in and have a cup somewhere else. Mind you—it should be a part of your duties!”

  Kyle blushed and mumbled, “Yes, Sir! I’ll make a pot right away and do it every day from now on.”

  “Allen nodded. “See that you do, Kyle. If anyone asks, you tell ‘em I’ll be back in a couple of hours, alright?”

  “You bet I will, Sir!”

  Allen stepped out on the boardwalk at just past 7am. It was a cool, overcast morning, the early summer temporarily derailed by rain showers that were a blessing to the local farmers but the very devil for the streets of Billings. He minced down the boards trying, in vain, to avoid the dirt clots and occasional piles of human waste and offal littered here and there in his path.

  Coming to the end of the block, he saw that a little café across the street was open for business. He started to step down onto the muddy road when he spied two young bankers headed his way. They also saw him, and he was aghast to see them almost trip over each other in their haste to keep from encountering him on the walkway.

  Frowning, he realized that his feelings were hurt—again. It was the same thing over, and over, again in this town. Everyone…young and old, rich and poor seemed to loathe him with inordinate fervor. Allen decided, in that moment, that it was high time to be on his way. His business was still flourishing… he would put it in young Freddie’s hands to manage until it sold.

  Cheerful at the thought of starting anew in a different place, Allen decided to turn the corner rather than face the two young bankers (and their scorn). There was a little restaurant about halfway up the block and as he made his way there a large, shambling figure lurched out from an alley, almost bowling him over. Allen realized that this was the same drunkard he had spied, earlier, from his office window.

  Allen fought against the stumbling oaf, and tried not to gag at the smell of the man who seemed determined to trip him up. The smell of old sweat, piss, and vomit engulfed Allen’s senses, and he cried out, “Get away from me, you fool!”

  “Sorry… hey, sorry!” the bum gasped and finally got his feet under him enough to stagger on down the boardwalk.

  Allen stared after him, and brushed at his fancy clothes in disgust. I’m probably covered in fleas, already! he thought. Then, he went on his way and stepped into the cafe for a quick cup of coffee before traveling to the hotels and stables to see if a certain marshal was still in his town.

  ~

  Matthew sank down on a bench direc
tly across the street from the Little Haymaker saloon. To a casual passerby, he would appear to be passed out on the boards after a long night of inebriation. Which was fine by him as it gave him the opportunity (at least until the local constables showed up with their curt orders and long Billy sticks) to observe his enemy’s lair.

  Looking up and down the street, Matthew saw that he was, for the moment, alone. He studied the wallet he had lifted from Earl Dickson’s coat pocket and riffled through it as quickly as he could. He was searching for proof of identity. In truth, he hardly recognized the man at all. He had observed his quarry carefully, too, before springing out of hiding and picking his pocket. But Dickson was a canny customer who had done wonders on changing his appearance.

  There were so many men who had come and gone, like players on a stage, during the ponderous prostitution and human trafficking trial eight years ago in Seattle, Matthew hardly remembered Dickson’s face, but the pompous gentleman of a few minutes ago seemed so far different from the Seattle criminals it was like night compared to day.

  Still, anything would do… a paper, a forgotten note, a picture… Ah ha! Matthew grinned in triumph. The expensive, leather wallet folded in two. One section held a large number of banknotes, and the other side sectioned into small pockets. Seeing the pinked edge of a photograph peeking out from one of the tiny enclosures, Matthew pulled it out and spied an old portrait. A grey, bleak-looking woman of about thirty years stared out at him and he turned it over to read the inscription on back.

  Your Loving Mother—Phoebe Mahoney Dickson

  Matthew grinned and tucked the picture into his pocket. Exulting, he thought… Finally, I have proof! He couldn’t be sure if this same man had actually killed his Iris, but he did see the pinkish scars gracing the man’s countenance. Then, feeling the sharp nip of a flea as it found purchase on his neck, he grimaced and dropped the hoboes borrowed coat, scarf and hat in another alley just a few feet away.

  He had traded his fine wool coat and leather hat for the old man’s stinking rags so Matthew didn’t think the hobo would mind the loss too much. Hesitating for a moment, Matthew knowingly committed his first act of theft, as well. A simple robbery would produce Dickson’s ire but not his suspicions, Matthew thought, as he tossed the empty wallet on the dour rags and ran two blocks away to where Lincoln was tied up outside of a sheep pen.