Deadman's Fury (The Deadman Series Book 2) Page 6

  The man’s little brown eyes were alight with excitement and Matthew cautioned himself to take the man’s words with a grain of salt. All too often, rumors became grist for the mill in a small town. Unsubstantiated gossip became truth whether the whispered words were true or false. Leaning forward, Matthew asked, “Can you fill us in, Mr. Smith?”

  Sitting back in his chair, Yorkie surprised the sheriff by saying, “I think most of what I say here is just someone’s fancy…words uttered with spiteful intent, if you catch my drift. But there are a couple of strange things I have seen with my own two eyes. Don’t know if they connect with those girls’ disappearance but it don’t hurt to fill you in, I reckon.”

  The waitress brought their meals and Yorkie asked for another cup of coffee. Then he leaned forward while the other men ate dinner and spoke about the oddness of some of his neighbors’ behavior. “First off,” he said, “there’s a bunch of witches down the road from me.”

  Observing Matthew’s raised eyebrow, Yorkie added, “That’s bona fide, Sheriff. You can ask my buddies!” Matthew made a mental note to talk to Smith’s “buddies” as soon as possible.

  Wiping his mouth, he said, “So, these ‘witches’…have you seen them do something illegal?”

  Yorkie shook his head. “Nah, not really. They actually seem to be good girls. They attend to some of the birthin’ around here and grow herbs and spices on their farm. It’s just that…” Yorkie turned red. “Well, a few times when I was out late harvesting my apples, I would look over at their property and seen a big fire burning in the dusk.”

  He swiped his kerchief across his forehead again. “I know my eyesight ain’t what it used to be but I swear those girls was dancing around the fire just as nekked as the day is long!”

  “Now,” he continued, “I would hate to get those gals in any trouble. Like I said before, they seem like good people, just a little strange. On the other hand, there’s a house down the road from me. I don’t like them folks at all. They are new to the area.” Putting his two hands in the air, he glared. “But don’t go thinking I hate new arrivals to town because it ain’t so.”

  Gazing at the mild expression on the lawman’s faces, Yorkie’s shoulders slumped. “Some folks around here seem to think I ain’t nuthin’ but a gossip but it ain’t true. There are some great folks who just came here. Like the Donnelly’s who started up the new cemetery and The Shamrock, and that reporter in from Chicago who opened the Wenatchee Telegraph.”

  Leaning forward, Yorkie almost whispered, “And the reason I don’t like the Owens—those neighbors that moved in last year—is that they be a mite hinky whenever I show my face to them. He’s some sort of holy-roller preacher but…” Yorkie squirmed a little in his seat. “There be something wrong with their children. I can’t put my finger on it but those young ‘uns don’t act normal.”

  Matthew and his deputies had finished their meal by this time and sat back in their chairs. “Have you reported any of this to your local sheriff, sir?” Roy asked, and the old man flushed red.

  “Ack! That old crook!” he spat. “Yes, godammit, I have but Winslow just looks at me like I’m teched in the head.”

  Matthew put his napkin down on the table. “Well, Mr. Smith, I happen to think you have good instincts. I think my deputies and I will go and check on your neighbors tomorrow.”

  Yorkie smiled and then worry etched his brow. “Now, like I said, I hope that you don’t hurt them witch girls any. They seem to be sweet even if they are a little odd. Do whatever you like to that other bunch though. I think they are up to no good. And pay special attention to those kids, okay?” The old man winked, then added, “You just head east about five miles…you’ll see my apple trees. Come on in and I’ll point out where those neighbors are.”

  “We will, Mr. Smith, and thank you.” Matthew paused for a moment, thinking of killing two birds with one stone. “Listen, our search might take us in a different direction entirely but, if we are in town tomorrow evening, why don’t you and your buddies meet up with us here for dinner? My treat. I would like to hear what they have to say, too.”

  Yorkie’s eyes gleamed with gratitude. When he was a younger man, he had commanded respect. By God, he still held the rights to one of the best and most profitable orchards in the region. Yet age and frailty had taken their toll and, nowadays, the young bucks in town viewed him and his cronies with contempt more often than not. So, promising to bring his friends, Yorkie agreed to meet up with the lawmen tomorrow evening for dinner. Then he put on his hat and walked out the door.

  Turning to his deputies, Matthew said, “It’s early still. Why don’t we head on over to the Shamrock for a drink?”

  Roy looked startled. “I thought we weren’t going to, Matthew.”

  The sheriff glowered. “I’d like to see them try to stop us.”

  Grinning, the two deputies followed Matthew out the door.

  They crossed the street and started walking down the boardwalk toward the bright green saloon. At one point, Matthew stopped when a fragrance, both sweet and cloying, assaulted his nostrils. Transported back in time by that smell, he was reminded of the day his Uncle Jon was buried—along with Jon’s wife and so many other members of his hometown—after Top Hat and his gang laid waste to Granville.

  The sharp olfactory memory caused him to pause and look in the window of a small flower shop. He could see some purple blooms lined up on a low shelf and knew that they were some kind of fancy lily. Gazing at a small sign by the front door, he read, DONNELLY’S FLOWERS AND FUNERAL SERVICES, in small gold letters.

  This Donnelly fellow has a finger in a lot of pies, Matthew thought. Shaking off the sad memories, he muttered, “Come on, fellas. Let’s go beard the goat.”

  Abner looked bewildered but Roy smirked as they followed Matthew into The Shamrock Saloon.

  ~

  Fred Marston watched from the back of the large dining room as three lawmen stepped in the door and walked up to the bar. He grinned slightly as the bartender gave each of the men a once-over and then shrugged at their forbidding expressions as he poured them a whiskey.

  Of course, they would have been welcome. For one thing, they were obviously lawmen; for another, they were dressed nicely and would have easily passed the dress code restrictions. So the real question was, why are they here? They were clearly from out of town as Fred knew all the local authorities.

  Staring across the room, he decided to get as close as he could to the three strangers. He would find out what they were doing here, what their business was, or if they were simply passing through. If nothing else, he would tell Patrick about the men’s presence. Fred knew that, for the most part, the Wenatchee authorities had taken up permanent residence in the boss’s pockets. But these newcomers were obviously not in thrall to Patrick Donnelly. He picked up his cup of coffee and moved about six stools away from where the men sat talking to the bartender.

  “Can I get you something, boss?” Arnie called.

  “Nah, just finishing up my coffee before I head on home,” Fred replied.

  Arnie picked up a glass and polished it as a tall, blonde-haired man—a sheriff according to the badge that gleamed on his vest—asked a question. “We’re here looking into a series of disappearances in the area. Mainly, young girls. So I wondered…have you heard anything about it?”

  Fred’s heart started beating hard in his chest and he struggled to keep his alarm from showing. One man, a deputy sitting next to the sheriff, was gazing around the room with bright, suspicious eyes. Fred had felt those eyes land on him once already. Schooling his features into nonchalant stillness, he listened to Arnie’s response.

  “Yeah, I have heard a little. It’s hard not to hear things from behind this bar.” He studied the men’s badges and asked, “Where you boys from, anyway?”

  “Spokane,” the sheriff answered. “Tell me, where is your sheriff’s office? We mean to go have a chat with him but we just got here and haven’t had a chance yet.” />
  Arnie set down a polished glass and said, “Well, you go down the street…north, about a quarter-mile. You’ll see the jailhouse. Sheriff Winslow’s office is there. If you went now, you’d probably run into one of the deputies, I’m sure. Meanwhile, I could tell you a little about what I know. Oh, excuse me,” he said and went to serve a well-dressed customer who had just sat down at the far end of the bar.

  Fred had heard enough. These men were scratching in Patrick’s hen yard and the boss needed to know. Not to mention the fact that six girls were trussed up together in one stall waiting to be loaded into the largest of their coaches, only a few hours away from transport to their “warehouse” in Seattle.

  He set his cup down on the bar, put on his hat and called out, “I’m headin’ home, Arnie. See you next week.”

  “Bye now, Fred,” Arnie replied.

  Patrick’s henchman strolled out the door, walked down the boardwalk and mounted his horse. Forcing himself to go slow and steady, Fred rounded the corner, checked to make sure no one was watching, and then spurred the animal into a frantic gallop.

  Chapter 9

  A Change of Plans

  Margaret was ill and shaking by the time Fred Marston rode his horse into the barn, joining Patrick and Dan at the front of the stall that held the six hostages. She thought there was still a vial of laudanum tucked into her corset but a frantic search informed her that it was gone and she silently fretted that maybe she’d lost it during Amelia’s kidnapping.

  She would not, could not, admit her fears to her brother. He was already angry with her and hearing that she might have left evidence behind that could incriminate them would only enrage him further. Margaret would never admit that she was suffering from withdrawal pangs either; Patrick would have no sympathy for her plight. So she feigned a headache and quietly went about preparing their hostages for transport.

  Fred had told his boss that a keen set of lawmen were hot on their trail although he didn’t think they realized it yet. Patrick paced back and forth in front of the stall’s entrance, frowning in ire.

  “What did you say their names were?” he asked Fred.

  “I didn’t hear, boss. But I did hear the sheriff say they were from Spokane County. They were asking about girls gone missing from the area and where Winslow’s office is located.”

  Patrick spat in disgust. “Well, Winslow doesn’t know anything about this end of our business, thank God. I swear he’s as loose as a goose. If anyone with real balls asked him what he knew, he’d spill like a cracked egg.” He stopped pacing and gazed down at the girls sitting chained together in the straw.

  “I hate to do this but I think you two had better get a move on. If you leave now, you could be in Seattle in three days, well ahead of anybody snooping around our personal business. Also, although they’re not quite ready, you’d better take the Indian and the new girl. I want this place as clean as possible in case that sheriff decides to pay a visit.” Fred and Dan nodded.

  “Margaret!” he yelled as he spun in place. “Get these girls dressed for the trip.” Standing right behind him, Patrick handed his sister a small bottle of laudanum, one of many he kept under lock and key in order to keep the captives compliant. “Give them each a small sip so they sleep most of the way,” he said, looking her in the eye. “And I better not catch you drinking at that trough, either,” he added.

  She lowered her eyes and went to fetch some old coats and mufflers. Most of the girls had been dressed lightly when they were abducted but the weather had turned chilly the last couple of days. As the men would be taking the overland pass into Seattle where the temperatures might drop below freezing, it would not do to have their captives grow sick and die from exposure en route.

  As Margaret scurried about grabbing the coats and shawls for the drug-addled girls, Patrick turned to Fred once again. “So,” he said. “You don’t think that sheriff is on to us?”

  Fred shook his head. “Nah, I really don’t. They could be trouble, though. I’m with you on cleaning this place up, pronto.”

  Patrick agreed and walked out of the barn, then into the house. He gathered some cash, a couple more bottles of laudanum and a few firearms while his men harnessed four of their biggest draft horses onto a large, covered freight-wagon. By the time he got back to the barn, the girls were being carried out. Each of them was gagged before they were chained together on the floorboards.

  Patrick handed the cash, drugs and weapons to Fred and wished the two men good speed. “Once you get to the halfway house, change these horses out, let the girls rest for the night and then head on in to the warehouse.”

  The ‘warehouse’ was actually one of Patrick’s brothels but the madam in charge, Polly Cumberlain, would do her best to make the new arrivals appear healthy and pretty. Some of them, though—due to the circumstances of their abduction—would be easier to work with than others.

  Staring in at Amelia Winters, Patrick told his sister, “That one still looks pretty sick. Maybe we should just do her right now.”

  Margaret, trying to mask her sudden exhilaration from the large dose of laudanum she had swallowed rather than waste it on the squaw, looked at Patrick and said, “She’ll be fine, brother. She just needs a little more time.”

  A few moments later, the wagon headed out of the barnyard and down the road.

  Patrick turned to his sister. “I would have you stay in the house tonight. There is a chance that the sheriff and his deputies will come to call within the next couple of days. We both need a good night’s sleep and then, first thing in the morning, we will clean this barn from top to bottom.”

  Margaret nodded and followed her brother. She clutched the scant amount of laudanum remaining in the vial in her fist and, before mounting the porch steps, tucked it into a hidden pocket of her skirt.

  ~

  Deputy Richard “Dicky” McNulty sat at the desk in the Kittitas County sheriff’s office, staring out the window at the brilliant blue skies of late September. Red and gold leaves fell like rain from maple trees across the street in the little municipal park that used to house the dead until the Donnelly’s dug them up and transported the bones to the new graveyard.

  He sighed in frustration. Dicky had spent the better part of his youth daydreaming about being a “lawman.” He wanted to do right and be recognized as a man of honor, integrity and principal. He was one step up the ladder to fulfilling his dreams but feared that was as far as he was liable to get.

  For one thing, he was a runt. His size seemed normal enough to him when he was a youngster. Although his pa—Joseph McNulty—was short at only 5 feet, 4 inches, he was as wide as a tree stump and bigger than life itself to his starstruck son. He used to say, “Size is not the measure of strength, laddie. Strength comes from in here.” Joseph would then pound his red-furred chest for emphasis and declare, “The McNultys were always a wee clan, but known verra well for their fierceness in battle!”

  Unfortunately, Dicky took after his mother’s side of the family, so he was not only short in stature but slight in frame as well. At twenty-two years old, Dicky stood only 5’5” and weighed in at 129 pounds sopping wet.

  Worse yet, when a falling tree later killed his pa, Dicky developed a stutter. The doctor told his mother that the boy was in a state of shock from seeing his pa killed in front of his eyes. He assured her that eventually the shock would pass and Dicky would regain his former tongue but, so far, that had not happened.

  He couldn’t even mutter “Good morning” without the words backing up in his throat like a clogged pipe. “Gu,gu,gu…od mmmmorning!” he had barely managed to utter earlier when Sheriff Winslow walked into the office. The shifty old coot had stared at him with ugly eyes and said, “Try not to talk unless you have to, Dicky…got it?”

  Dicky turned as red as a beet with mortification and bowed his head in shame at the smirks he saw in his fellow deputies’ eyes.

  Winslow and the other men had left soon after, heading to the train depot to mee
t up with some bigwigs who were coming to town to sign documents detailing the changes involved in turning their area from Kittitas County into Chelan County. The sheriff wore his best seersucker suit and a new derby in order to woo the legislators. Even so, he looked like a portly, puffed up Banty rooster.

  Dicky knew the sheriff was resolved toward politics and making money. Ever since the Great Northern Railway had come to the area, real estate was selling like hotcakes. Winslow didn’t give a fig about keeping law and order; the only thing he wanted to do was line his pockets with all the new cash coming in by the trainload every day.

  Although the young man suspected he was twice as smart as his boss and three times the man, he burned with frustration knowing that his impediment would keep him on the bottom rung of society while fat, crooked, cruel men like Winslow would rise to the top like clots of cream in a pitcher of milk.

  A flurry of activity caught Dicky’s eye and he focused his attention out the window as one of Donnelly’s carriages whizzed by. He stood up and walked outside, staring south as the shiny new contrivance stopped in front of the flower shop/funeral parlor.

  Mr. Donnelly sat on the driver’s bench, accompanied by his sister Margaret. She was dressed in a fine gown of gray brocade with purple piping and wore a matching velvet hat with a long plume of lavender feathers covering half her face that Dicky figured was, as usual, pale and wan as a ghost. He shuddered. There was something about those two that he did not like or trust. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on…just a feeling of goose bumps that tickled his neck whenever he was in their company.

  Being the youngest and newest deputy on Winslow’s staff meant that he was often called upon to work late, early, or on weekends while his fellow officers idled in bed or took picnics with their families on Sunday afternoons.

  At first, Dicky thought it was a fluke. But often, while working the darkest hours of night, the young deputy had seen the Donnelly’s black carriage and matching horses sail down the street—the canvas window openings closed—and Donnelly’s men sitting armed and ominous on the front bench.